


the dark and the dentist

by sunshiner



Series: headcanons [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff, Lingerie, M/M, OT5, Smut, also a bit of smut, also a lot of characters making cameos, and bad puns, so many references to the fandom, this is basically 60k of meta and Harry crying over Louis' eyelashes, which i should tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 66,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know this song,” Louis whispers, and Harry has to lean his ear toward him to pick up what he’s saying. “It was written for people to dance to it. We should be dancing.”<br/>
<i>We can’t</i>, Harry almost spits, but it’d be stupid of him. Louis knows they can’t. Even if he looks like any regular Parisian in their twenties, and Harry looks like any hipster Parisian in their twenties, they can’t anyway. To be fair, they probably wouldn’t do it even if they were out. But if they were two uni students, both in Paris for an exchange, meeting over fallen books at the library, or because of mutual friends, or watching Monet’s Water Lilies?<br/>
“How would we dance?” Harry murmurs, mouth almost pressed to Louis’ cheek, so close he can feel his warmth. What a picture they must make, two millionaires freezing in a park and dreaming of a different life.<br/>
<br/>
<i>An account of the events of November 2014. Canon-compliant.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Namra, I don't know if this is what you wanted, but I hope you enjoy it. I loved writing it.  
> And thank you so much, Sophie and Zoe, for organising the exchange and putting up with my delays!

 

** 28th of October - Naked Lightbulbs **

 

Background noises are the same in every country, every language. The cheerful chatter and the clinking glasses, or the goodbyes and wheels of suitcases, or the buzzing of a stadium before a match. Or a concert, really. It’s all the same. The wine tonight is amazing, though, so there’s that.

No one ever told him how much of his time would be wasted being in places he didn't want to be, doing things he didn't want to do, surrounded by people he didn’t want to talk to, but at least that was to be expected. He just never imagined to be that alone while doing them. Not with the band and all.

Or with Louis.

His hand reaches for his phone instinctively, and he tries to pin it on everyone's tendency to find refuge in their phones while in an uncomfortable situation instead of his constant need to know what Louis is doing. There may be a bit of dependency there.

Thankfully, it's mutual.

_coming to getcha, love :) hey, who even attends those sort of things?_ , Louis' latest text reads. It was sent five minutes ago, which means Louis and Celia will be there in no more than a quarter of hour.

Having a boyfriend and a driver coming to pick him up, that's also something he never imagined.

_Grimmy's here. I also met Kate Moss_ , he types back and pockets his phone. Fifteen minutes and he can be out of here. He needs to say goodbye to people, talk to security, pose for the last pictures.

And it's just routine, isn't it? He could do it in his sleep. It does feel a bit like sleepwalking at times, like his body's there but he's not. And he doesn't get it, doesn't get why him being here, even if he's disengaged and visibly eager to get the fuck out of here, will still be worth enough buzz to justify this farce.

He gets his own appeal. The music part, the performing live part, even his charm in interviews. What he'll never get is how his mere presence matters, even when he's just a well-dressed shell with nothing to say or do with the venue.  Why it matters that it's him, and not Liam, or Zayn, or Niall, or Louis.

(there's a part of him that likes it. how could he not.)

His phone vibrates again while he's shaking hands with the owners of Annabel, the last ones before he can retreat in the cloakroom and wait for his boy to arrive. He congratulates them on the documentary, they tell him how much they appreciate him coming.

Oh, how proud must both of their PR teams be.

He checks his inbox as soon as he's out of the main room, with an urgency he's learnt to live with in the past  four years. It's a thought he has often, but it's always baffling how he's always a tiny tad more interested in Louis than in anything else.

_wasn't it a dinner though? does she even eat? what a cheap invitation_

He snorts, because it's awful humour and a bit rude but it always works on him, then beams when he reads the following _almost there xx_

He hasn't seen Louis since this morning, but he's been tormented by pictures of Louis wearing his trench coat bent over an Aston Martin for the whole day, and he just needs to put his hands on the 3D version. Maybe re-enact the whole bending over thing. That'd be nice.

"Mister Styles, your car is here," a man in a black suit tells him and escorts him outside. Harry wonders if this nondescript man will go home and mention him to someone, or if Harry's just as nondescript to him as he is to Harry. There's nothing like a gathering full of celebrities to show how inconsequential it is, how the only two things they truly have in common is how absolutely ordinary they are, but know how to look amazing in a pap shot.

He thanks the man in the suit, shakes his hand and braves the flashing lights. He's quite glad that by tomorrow people will be reassured that he can indeed still walk twenty feet and slip into a backseat if someone holds the door open for him.

He hears Louis’ laugh before he sees him and, as soon as he’s seated and has closed the door behind him, he’s treated to a very crinkly-eyed boyfriend playing with the ruffles of his dress shirt.

“Good evening, Mister Darcy,” Louis greets, tugging the fabric and beckoning him close enough to kiss. Their lips dance softly as the car sets into motion, making their heads fall back against the seats. They erupt in startled chuckles, separating and resting their foreheads together. Louis’ eyes sparkle and Harry can’t even get a little bit mad about him mocking his outfits. He’ll wear all the ruffles Saint Laurent can make if they make Louis smile like that.

“Good evening, Celia,” Harry says to their driver, who, bless her, is used to them being like that. Celia throws back a ‘Good evening, Harry’, and Harry mentally high-fives himself for finally getting her to stop calling him Mister Styles. He gets too much of that already to endure it from the people he sees every day.

Then, “And hi,” he whispers to Louis, and Louis scrunches his nose and gives him another kiss, his hands still against Harry’s chest, and scoots closer, resting his legs over Harry’s.

“Hi love,” Louis drawls, lazily. “How was the thing?”

Harry settles a palm on Louis’ hip, sneaking it under his shirt till it’s flat against Louis’ hot skin. “Mh, it was, like, posh.”

“Worthy of the frilly shirt?” Louis asks, twirling a piece of fabric between his fingertips.

“Leave the frilly shirt alone, or I’ll think you like it.”

Louis snickers, and trails his fingers up, till he can undo the shirt’s first button. “Maybe I just really like what’s underneath it,” he murmurs, all pretence of mocking him lost, and drags his open lips on the newly exposed skin, making Harry quite thankful that he’s wearing dress pants instead of skinny jeans.

He lets himself enjoy it for a bit, before pinching Louis’ side. “Ouch,” Louis yelps, low enough not to catch Celia’s attention. He gives Harry his best, most pitiful pouty face, but stops what he was doing. Celia is an absolute gem, efficient and discreet, and has pretended not to know how some suspicious bruises or stains on Harry and Louis came to be more times that they can count, but they are sort of adults now. Being adults should also mean learning how to keep it in their pants during a 20 minutes drive. It’s an ambitious goal, Harry knows, but they will get there. Like, probably.

“It’s such a pretty name, though,” Louis says, out of the blue, and Harry narrows his eyes at him. “A string of naked lightbulbs, I mean. There’s a big imagery there. It’s very, um, how would you say?”

“Evocative?” Harry supplies, after a pause, and waits for Louis to resume talking. Louis’ gaze is a bit lost, fixed on the window, and it’s one of those things about Louis, that. Like, it’s obvious, someone who enjoys songwriting as much as Louis does, and is so bloody gifted and prolific, must appreciate a good poetic image. But it’s so rare for him to let anyone see what actually goes into his mind, what colourful world exists beneath the crassness and matter-of-factness he hides behind.

“Evocative, yeah. You think a string of naked lightbulbs and you think something unfinished, a work in progress, full of hopes and dreams. Soft music, a ballad maybe, just a couple of piano keys really,” his thin fingers dance in the air, like playing, “and two figures in the darkness, tired after a long day, swaying in a dusty room, warm light touching them. _Whenever I see you, a string of naked lightbulbs turns on inside my head, like being with you’s the best idea I’ve ever had_ ” he half-says, half-sings, hoarse but in tune, smiling like he always does when he’s unafraid of being heard.

Harry’s lips are slightly parted, every piece of him mesmerised. He honestly contemplates clapping. It’s not even what Louis said, per se, but how. It’s the same in the writing room; one would think he’d be throwing ideas around all the time, never shutting up, but he’s actually kinda quiet in there. He can stay silent for the longest time, waiting for anyone else who’s there with him to make comments and notes, and finally, when everyone else is at their wit’s end, speak up and solve the verse.

(from what Julian told him, that’s not what happened when Louis showed up with the rough version of No Control, but that whole track was an exceptional event from start to finish. And the night and morning after that inspired it, as well.)

“Whoa, that wasn’t cliché at all,” Louis snarls, snapping out of it and shaking his head. When Harry leans to press a kiss into his cheek, because he knows Louis wouldn’t take a compliment anyway, Louis’ face is flaming under his lips.

Louis clears his throat, then. “Was the dinner good? What did you eat?” he asks, and Harry smirks at the diversion, but rolls with it.

“Mh-mh,” he nods. “They made an aperitif at the beginning, with like, um, canapés and finger food, and there were like these wasabi shrimp things, and tiny cheviches, which is quite an odd idea, but they were good, oh and bite-size mushroom lasagnas. You would love those. I’ll make them for you.”

“As long as you get rid of the bite-size part. I demand full portions, Harold,” Louis interjects, but immediately makes a ‘keep going’ hand motion, and Harry beams and does.

He tells him about the main room, and the seating arrangement, and the table cloth arrangement, and the weird entrée with sundried tomatoes, and what’s the deal with those? They lose half their healthy properties and are difficult to chew. By the time he’s done, they are almost in their neighbourhood.

“Speaking of food,” Louis starts after a moment of silence, and Harry wants to kiss him for making sure he was all talked-out, but stays put. “Zayn’s coming to pick us up tomorrow, so I told him to come half an hour before and have breakfast with us, if that’s cool?”

“Absolutely, I’ll make omelettes,” he says distractedly, because there wasn’t even the need to ask, but then remembers what day is tomorrow. The first day of promo, and the signing for a book with whose protagonists they have in common the names and not much else. He wants to crawl into his bed and not resurface until this promo season is over, and yet he asks, “Are you excited about tomorrow?”

Louis snorts and corrugates his forehead in his best sarcastic pug face. “Me? Can’t wait to sign my name hundreds of times on rubbish in front of crying ladies that deserve much better than that.” He brings a finger up to poke Harry’s cheek. “You should be excited, though. Are you? Are you going to do what Simon’s media consultants suggested?”

Ah, the media consultants: people whose only job is tricking people into liking you.

_I get that it may seem hard for you right now_ , a lovely woman with a shark smile had told him, _but slipping out of the closet only takes a sentence. Making the public think about it without outright telling them is a little trickier, but not that much. An interviewer asks you about love interests, you somehow slip the word ‘men’ in the answer and bam. If your team does a good job, twenty-four hours later there are hundreds of mentions of Harry Styles’ potential bisexuality. I’ve seen some of your interviews, I know you’ve been using gender neutral terms for years, but that’s not enough. No one in the press likes neutral anything. You have to make a statement, give them something to quote. A one-liner, maybe. Catchy, sort of like a slogan._

A slogan. They want him to advertise his private life like a luxury car.

“Yes,” Harry answers softly, as their very own luxury car pulls into their driveway. “I think so.”

 

 

** 29th  – Dominoes **

 

“I don’t think so,” Harry squeaks, twisting his hands. His bum has moulded a perfect indentation in this couch and if someone else asks why their album is called FOUR, he will stand up and run all the way home. Or at least into Louis’ arms. Where’s the bloody git by the way? He can’t be in the frame, all right, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be in the room.

“You don’t think what?” Liam says and sinks further into the cushions, the poster boy for cocky tranquillity. It’s a subtle combination that only someone wearing a leather jacket indoors could ever wish to achieve.

Harry takes a very long, very yogic breath. “This, like, thing. I don’t think I can do it.”

“Oh, Stylesy,” Liam reaches out and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder, giving his best Winnie The Pooh-ish thanks-for-the-honeypot smile. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“No, no, no. I want to. I do. It’s, like,” he licks his lips and Liam leans forward, encouragingly. “I am a terrible actor.”

Liam, as it is, fucking bursts into laughter. Why couldn’t they get Zayn to be interviewed with him? Zayn wouldn’t have laughed. Or Louis. Louis would have laughed, but, like, lovingly. Loving laughter.

“That is true,” Liam says around a cackle, “that is correct. Though I think it’s okay even if you come off a bit forced. You’re supposed to be nervous. Makes it more credible.”

“You think?”

“Trust me, Mister Styles. Big Payno is always right.”

“Somehow that doesn’t reassure me in the slightest.”

Liam shakes his head a bit. “You sound so much like Tommo sometimes, I swear.”

There’s no way to gather if he means it as a compliment, but Harry decides to take it as such. As he waves Liam off, there’s a flurry of noises around them, marking the end of their break between interviews. They’ve been through so many that they hardly bother learning which media outlet is next (ODE, maybe?). Only, an assistant told them that there will be a question about girls in this one.

So they have a strategy. Liam will give Harry an open, Harry will say something quotable but not too compromising, and that’ll be it. Done. Out there for the world to watch, comment, like, tweet and maybe think about.

While they stand up and shake hands with the interviewer, a lovely blond woman in a black lacy dress, Harry wonders if they can still go ahead with this is he pukes his insides right there on the floor.

Honestly, with their team, the answer is probably yes.

They all take their seats and Harry focuses on swallowing a lot and breathing through his diaphragm and how did he let Louis convince him to make eggs and sausages for breakfast?

Liam’s hand on his thigh snaps him out of his stomach-churning thoughts. He leans in close, warm and solid beside Harry, and whispers in his ear, “Mate, what are you worried for? You and Louis literally had an interview about who puts it up whose bum.”

And the shaky but sincere giggle that escapes Harry is exactly why Liam’s the perfect partner for this, because he’ll understand to take it seriously without making Harry more anxious. Harry smiles at him and thinks of the five of them in red tracksuits, and Louis describing their sex life as them being _quite generous to each other_. Liam’s right, they’ve said and done far riskier things. Harry can handle a question about girls.

He faces the interviewer, and someone off frame tells them that they can start. When the cameras start rolling, Harry feels the same thrill that jolts him every time he has to put on a show, the pumping adrenaline rush that makes his grin widen.

He can do this.

(It still throws him off a bit when the first sentence to come out of the interviewer’s mouth is _“How’s your bum, by the way?”_.

He’ll take it as a sign, though. He has to.)

 

_Interviewer: “Your favourite traits that you look for in a lady, four favourite traits.”_

_Liam: “Female. It’s a good trait.”_

_Harry [snorting]: “Not that important. Eeeeerm, I would say…”_

 

 

** 30th – Break every lock to every door **

 

He’d like to say that what wakes him up is the dipping of the bed beside him, or the warm weight of another body leaning against his back, or the lips caressing his neck just so, up and down from his ear to his shoulder, or the hand dancing on his abs, fingers so gentle, barely no pressure at all, like tiny brushes painting his skin red. Honestly, what does it is Louis’ hard dick pressing against his bum.

Harry isn’t complaining.

“Lou,” he whines, reaching back until he can get a good grip on Louis’ left thigh and bring it forward, Louis immediately moving to hook the leg on Harry’s, his cock digging further into Harry’s flesh.

“I can’t believe you said that,” Louis whispers around a moan, rocking his hips forward just slightly, like he can’t help it, and that is a sentiment Harry can sympathise with. “It was, oh –um,” he swallows, so close to Harry that he can feel it against his skin. “It was brilliant.”

“Said what?” There are plenty of things Harry has said that are worth getting emotional over. Or horny. Or both. Emotionally horny Louis is one of Harry’s favourite Louises.

He keeps dragging his palm all over Louis’ thigh, hears the way Louis’ breath hitch with every shift, the friction building up but not nearly enough to be anything more than maddening teasing.

It’s hardly surprising when Louis unhooks his leg and scoots away, separating them. He always has troubles maintaining a grip on himself in the morning.

Louis takes hold of Harry’s shoulder, wordlessly pushing him till he’s lying flat on his back, Louis propped up on an elbow and hovering over him, his hand sliding down from Harry’s shoulder to play with a nipple.

“Don’t go a man,” Louis prompts in a phony Irish accent, only a hint of hoarseness in his voice.

Harry’s mouth twists into a grin immediately at the memory of yesterday, during their interview with Dan Wootton. It had been one of the last, right after a tense half hour with a journalist of the Guardian who seemed convinced Harry was about to announce his solo career right then and there. After that, Harry had taken it upon itself to remind papers that, instead of inexistent break-up rumours, they could write about the hopefully soon-to-be pressing gay ones.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he repeats with gusto. He must have done something very right, because Louis leans down to kiss him, deep and slow and dragged out, immersed and focused, and in the middle of it, in-between sucking Harry’s bottom lip and just leaving their tongues to dance one against the other, at once lazy and feverish, Louis moves to straddle Harry’s thighs, their crotches a hair’s breadth away.

Louis plants sloppy close-mouthed kisses on Harry’s cheeks and chin, and keeps his eyes closed even when Harry regains enough presence of mind to open his. “Say it again, babe, say it again,” he purrs, and Harry can’t keep still, he rolls his hips and almost screams when they touch, finally.

“Don’t knock it till you try it.” He puts two fingers under Louis’ chin and tilts it till they can kiss again, and they moan in each other’s mouth when Louis ruts down, their lengths sliding together and sending a shot of lightning all over Harry’s body, hot and tingling and wired. “Don’t, mh- don’t knock it till you try it.”

Louis grinds onto him without precision, dropping his forehead onto Harry’s chest and Harry grabs one of his arse cheeks, kneads it and presses it forward, coordinating their motions. Louis grunts and grumbles something into Harry’s collarbone, and then bites the skin just over the bone, and the sting just makes Harry harden more, his cock throbbing, a familiar pricking behind his eyes.

“What?” he asks, forcing the words through the muddiness in his mouth and his brain, his hand sliding from Louis’ arse to the small of his back.

Louis stills, a dead weight but for his subtle trembling, his head resting on Harry’s arm. “Want you to fuck me,” he murmurs, staring right at Harry, his pupils blown, but with a hint of mischievousness under his bleary gaze.

Harry chuckles for no reason, and Louis follows, that thin breathy giggle he only lets out when he’s completely relaxed, and Harry kisses him as deep as he can, because he knows that giggle tastes amazing. When they separate, Harry takes a second to just look at him, his beautiful man, pliant and adoring and bare in front of him, and brushes some of his sweaty fringe out of his eyes. “Think you can ride me, Lou?”

“Mh-mh,” Louis nods, pushing on Harry’s rib cage for leverage as he sits back up on his hips, Harry’s hands immediately landing on his waistline.

Louis blinks repeatedly, a bit less loopy now, and stretches his lithe torso to grab the lube in their nightstand, the muscles twitching under Harry’s touch. 

“Let me,” Harry interrupts when Louis starts uncapping the bottle, reaching out for it. But Louis bats him away with a grin.

He winks, licking his lips. “No need, love.”

Harry’s eyes widen on the spot, and one of his hands finds Louis’ rim before he can even process it. At once surprisingly and unsurprisingly, it’s slippery and wet and the tip of Harry’s index finger slides in without trouble. He can’t help pressing it further in, just to see Louis’ thighs shuddering and his mouth falling open into a pretty ‘O’, his abs contracting and his cock starting to leak at the tip. No wonder Louis got so hot and woozy in no time.

To be honest, Harry could probably come like this, from a couple of strokes and the thought of Louis fingering himself while Harry’s still sleeping, biting his lips to stay silent –because Louis is so loud, always, and so wonderful his wails, one hand buried deep inside him to prepare for Harry’s width and the other clasping the sheets not to jostle the bed.

But Louis wants to be fucked and, as far as Harry’s concerned, what Louis wants he gets.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Harry comments idly, or as idly as he can be with Louis’ clever hand on his cock, slicking it up with fast and precise strokes, means-to-an-end movements that still make Harry’s mind spin like a vinyl.

Louis wipes his hand on the duvet when he’s satisfied with his work, then kneels up, Harry steadying him with his grip on Louis’ side. “Someone’s coming to pick us up and bring us to the studio in an hour.” He takes hold of Harry’s cock and lines up, thumbing casually at his side, near the vein. “And I’m not leaving without an orgasm, Harold, so focus.”

And really, does he expect Harry to focus while he’s sitting on his cock, sinking onto it inch by inch, agonizingly slow?

“Fuck, Lou, for the love of God,” Harry whines and it never gets old, does it, being into Louis. It’s the best thing in the world, feeling Louis so close, like Harry could drown in him, shipwrecked at the bottom of a sea of Louis. Even when Louis is being a bloody tease, going down and immediately back up, high enough to almost make Harry slip out, and taking more of Harry with every thrust, but not enough, never enough.

Harry bucks his hips without meaning to, clenching his eyes shut with a low groan, but he cracks one open when Louis bursts into laughter, just a bit breathless.

Louis settles down on him in one go, the sodding devil, and bends down to kiss him. He lingers there, their noses touching, smirking. “Who’s in a hurry now?”

“Oh, you cheeky –“ Harry starts, and rolls them over, pushing Louis down on his back, sprawled in front of him. He trips a bit, his shoulder landing ungracefully on Louis’, and more than half his cock slips out, but he pushes back with urgency and then he’s there, with Louis’ legs tight around him and Louis’ gaze in his, aroused but peaceful.

And, like. He made it. Harry’s made it.

“I made it,” he tells Louis, and Louis brings up a finger and pokes one of his dimples.

“I can, um.” Louis digs a heel into Harry’s bum, pressing him forward. “I can quite feel it, big boy. After four years, you’ve perfected the art of flipping us over without beheading me. Woo-hoo. You should add it to your Wikipedia page.”

“You should stop making fun of me while I’m balls deep into you.” Harry pulls out almost fully and thrusts back in, and again, and again, getting a hand on Louis’ cock and jerking him off with the same pace he uses for fucking him.

It makes Louis shut up. And tilt his head into the pillow, and arch his back like an artwork, and Harry has to put his mouth on him, all over his sternum and the hollow of his throat, where his skin is salty and feverous. He changes the angle as he leans down, searching for Louis’ spot and knowing exactly where to find it. It only takes a couple of thrusts for Louis to explode in a litany of “There, Hazza, there there _there_ ”, his hands threading into Harry’s locks and _pulling_ , the demanding bastard.

Louis comes not long after, all over his own stomach and Harry’s hand, and Harry follows him, spilling deep into him to the sight of Louis taking two of Harry’s come-covered fingers between his lips and sucking. 

Harry follows him, and that’s how it has been from day one and what he wants to keep doing forever, following Louis to keep him safe, make sure he doesn’t get lost or goes too far in his recklessness, and let Louis take him by hand and lead him into the world without fear in return.

“Hey,” Louis says, and Harry’s vision comes back into focus. Louis is staring at him with blissful features but a question in his eyes, his left fingertips caressing Harry’s cheekbones. “Are you here?”

Harry turns to kiss the clubs tattoo on Louis’ pulse point.

“I’m here.”

 

 

** 31st – And I know for you, it’s always me **

**  
**

There’s faint music coming out of their main living room, which is nothing out of the ordinary in their house, but it’s something Harry can’t quite place. It must be a full record, though, because three or four songs go by as he waits for the water to boil and the tea to brew (one minute extra than what’s recommended on the tin, so it gets bitterer, because Louis is fussy like that), all sang by the same female voice, and all similar in style.

When the tea is ready, he takes the two mugs and makes his way to the living room, following the voice as it gets louder and louder. The thing is, he knows that voice. Not only in the mindless, subcounscious _I’ve heard her on the radio_ or _I’ve seen her present an award_ way, but like he actually knows her, knows her speaking voice more than her singing voice.

The fact that it takes him all the way to the entrance of the room to get it is, frankly, a bit embarrassing. Louis would be proud.

“Lou, love, why are you listening to Taylor Swift?” he asks to the room at large, but all he gets in response is a timid meow from Selina.

As it turns out, Louis is fast asleep on the couch with Selina curled on his lap, Bruce at his feet and a glass of red wine abandoned on the coffee table. Harry whispers _‘hello’_ to Bruce, now awake and already on his feet to greet him, then moves quietly to the stereo and pauses the cd just as Taylor sings about drowning in the rain. Weirdly enough, it’s the abrupt lack of sound that makes Louis stir.

“Babe,” Louis mumbles, sleepily, as he stretches his arms and legs, jostling a very displeased Selina. “How was your, mh, workout?”

Harry smiles at him, fond, as Louis yawns and adjusts his fringe. “Otherworldly, you’re missing out,” he says and walks up to him, sitting down with his bum on the couch and his legs on Louis’, depositing the mugs on the coffee table. Selina settles in between them with a huff, eager to let them know how unhappy she is with the current events.

Bruce also jumps on the couch, on Louis’ Harry-free side, but only wiggles his tail and headbutts Louis’ arm till he caves in and gives him a sideways hug. Harry resists for, like, ten seconds before reaching out, taking Louis’ phone from where it’s lying near the mugs, snapping a pic of them and sending it to himself.

“That was quick,” Louis deadpans, eyebrows raised.

“Sorry, Bruce is too cute, aren’t you boy?” he coos, and the puppy preens. “You, well,” he turns to Louis, who’s watching him like Harry’s the biggest idiot he’s ever seen, and why does he put up with him. “I’ll crop you out.”

“Oh, shut up, just shut the fuck up,” Louis says, carding a hand through Harry’s hair and pulling him in. Harry is more than happy to oblige, and kiss him as deeply as his grin permits. It’s so good, so heavenly even, that knowing that the picture can’t leave their phones, if not for a whatsapp to their families and immediate friends, only hurts a little bit.

When they detach, Louis still has his hand in Harry’s locks, and is frowning. “You’ll catch a cold, _again_ , if you don’t dry your hair properly, Hazza.”

Harry’s snicker only makes Louis frown more. But, like… Louis is a conundrum. For someone who does all he can to come off as an immature jackass, he’s such… he’s such a dad. Worrying about Harry’s damp hair, honestly. Harry plants a tiny kiss on Louis’ cheek, because he’s ridiculous and splendid and Harry feels so loved with him, always, even on a lazy Friday night with Taylor Swift as soundtrack.

“I can take care of myself, mum.”

“Oh, I see,” Louis says, his hold on Harry’s hair a bit firmer. “As long as you don’t infect me, you tit.”

“Maybe you should avoid close contacts, then.” Harry buries his head in Louis’ neck, nudging his skin with his nose and keeping his lips close enough to make Louis twitch with every breath.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” With a groan, Louis tugs on Harry’s hair and crashes their lips together as soon as it’s comfortable. Harry moves into the kiss with ease, almost completely into Louis’ lap now, and they keep licking and rocking lazily until Selina lets out an indignant squeak from where she’s trapped between them.

They separate with low whines, and settle back with the same placid grins on their faces, the same _this again_ smiles. Selina snorts, or does the cat version of it, then jumps down the couch and leaves the room entirely.

“What was it that you said? _Russian Blues are very sociable cats_ , was it?” Louis asks, staring wistfully at where Selina has just disappeared.

“Come off it, you. Don’t think I haven’t seen you two napping peacefully to Taylor Swift.”

Louis only answers with a snort, and circles his arms around Harry, holding tight. Harry lets his head fall on Louis’ shoulder, and he really likes the direction where this is going –Louis all soft and cuddly, red wine at arm’s reach, no plans for the night but testing exactly how solid this couch really is-, but he has to ask again.

“So, um, Lou. Interesting choice of soundtrack.”

“What?” Louis says with confusion, before widening his pretty eyes in understanding. “Oh! T-Swizzle and her travesty of an album, right. It’s important to check the competition, Harold. Especially when she’s robbing our major target demographics two weeks before our album drops, all while bedraggling your good name and driving skills.”

“What do my driving skills have to do with it?” he frowns, his fingers playing with the zipper of Louis’ sweatshirt. Why would Taylor write songs about him driving? As far as he remembers, she suffers from a mild car sickness.

Louis lets out a low, closed mouthed titter. “You’ve heard nothing? Not even Out Of The Woods?”

“I’ve heard Shake It Off.”

“Yeah, as has everyone who doesn’t live in a cave.” He pulls on one of Harry’s locks, curly as they always get when he lets them dry naturally. “ _To the fella over there with the hella good hair_ ,” he singsongs, twirling the strand on a finger.

“That’s rather innocuous, though, isn’t it?” Harry says, nuzzling against Louis’ hand.

“You should listen to the rest. Do you want to?”

“No. I don’t want to lie if I get asked about it. I can just say I haven’t listened to it.” _I also do not give a single fuck_ , he adds, mentally. He never listened to a full Taylor Swift album when he had to date her. He’s not about to start now.

“Fair enough.”

“Is it good, though?”

“It’s –” Louis furrows his brows, as he always does when he doesn’t like what he’s about to say. “It’s, I’d say, quite good. Almost. Good-ish. Listenable.” He deflates, sinking against the couch and putting the hand that’s not trapped behind Harry on his stomach. “It’s very, um. Cohesive, is the word? Like, you know. It tells a story. A story I hope she gets, like, a massive case of laryngitis for, but what can you do.”

He huffs, and locks his eyes with Harry’s, as if to prove that the whole thing doesn’t affect him in the slightest.

Harry pushes himself further into his lap, moving Louis’ free hand from his hair and intertwining their fingers. It’s just one of those _things_. Harry imagines that, twenty years down the line, Louis will still be sensitive to the topic.

(This fact is largely obscured by the thought of _spending the next twenty years with Louis_.)

“But the songs are not truly about me,” Harry specifies, squeezing Louis’ hand.

Louis rolls his eyes, but squeezes back. “Well, she surely goes out of her way to give at least a hint _per song_ that they are. Or she just knows a lot of people with green eyes,” he says with increasing vitriol but, when he raises his head to look into Harry’s very own green eyes, something must snap him out of his rant. He shakes his head and slides the hand behind Harry’s back till he can slip it under his shirt. “Sorry, I’m just bitter about the sales. And her parading around with Candy Floss without a fucking care in the world, bloody hell.”

“I think Karlie has green eyes, actually,” Harry says, and the pinch he gets for that is completely predictable. “Ouch, hey!”

“Sorry if I don’t make scrapbooks of her gal pals.” Louis pats the skin he so rudely pinched and sticks his tongue out to him, which Harry takes as his cue to kiss him, wet and clumsy. Their mouths move in a lazy waltz, Harry trying to lick the taste of wine out of Louis. “Mh,” Louis detaches with a whimper, a hand on Harry’s chin. “On second thought, can I make you listen to one song? Just one?”

“Of course. Why, though?”

Louis inhales sharply, and Harry can see the words stalling in his throat. “Ehr, mh. It’s very… us.” His jaw works, mouth twisting all over, his figure squirming with uneasiness. “Trust me, it truly, sincerely pains me to say this, but it’s beautiful.”

“Okay,” Harry says, grabbing the remote control. “Which track?”

“Twelve,” Louis whispers, like cotton to Harry’s ears, and he leans more into Harry’s touch.

Harry selects the track and presses play, battling with the voice in his head that tells him not to do it. There’s this moment, right before a song he’s never heard before starts, in which his mind seems hollow, unsure of what he’s supposed to feel. Will it be upbeat, catchy? Will it be sad? Will it get stuck in the back of his head for days, annoying and relentless like a pop up ad on a website? Will it shred his heart into pieces?

With the way Louis is staring in his lap, fingers crumpling the fabric of his sweats, picking at invisible threads, Harry thinks it’s the latter.

And then, it starts.

It’s moody, a kind of sad that’s not whiny sad. The beginning gives a vintage feel to it, opening with just a piano, and Taylor’s voice is raw and scratchy, like she’s singing with her eyes closed.

_I can hear them whisper as we pass by, it's a bad sign, bad sign_

Second person lyrics, speaking to the singer’s significant other in the song. A relationship that gets exposed to the public, a quite simple concept. There’s something haunting in it, Harry can give it that. There’s a build up, things coming, and Harry’s heart thumps just a bit faster with the first bridge, somehow disturbed, and he tunes out the lyrics for some bars.

He raises the volume during the chorus, his thumb clicking the right button unconsciously, and he hates listening to music in rooms so big. There’s so much space the sound can get lost into, too many reflecting surfaces, too much Louis next to him mouthing the lyrics under his breath. And Louis is a fast learner, with an excellent memory, but it takes more than a single listen to pick up a perfectly executed chorus. How many times has he replayed the track over and over while Harry was gone?

_Baby, I know places we won't be found,_ Louis sings along, and Harry only notices because they’re so close, and he can tell when Louis is singing in playback and when he’s not. _and they'll be chasing their tails trying to track us down_ , _cause I, I, I, I, I_ , he follows, and he raises his voice reflexively when he goes higher, dropping his head backwards and exposing more of his gorgeous neck like he does when he performs. There’s something remarkable about their two voices blending, both their tones so fragile and sharp and unique, and Harry tries to commit it to memory, file it with all the things they could have done differently if they had been wiser, more cold-blooded, more cunning. It’s idiotic of him, but he’s glad they weren’t.

_I know places we can hide,_ Taylor and Louis both sing, and it may not be true for Taylor – he doesn’t know where she draws inspiration from, if she means what she sings, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, but it’s true for Louis. Louis with the endless list of exotic hotels with private villas, Louis who would jump on a plane across the Atlantic just to spend two nights with him, Louis who exits through the backdoor and waits for him in the car while Harry walks in front of a sea of screaming paps, and greets him later with a smile on his face but clenched fists, because he hates leaving Harry at the mercy of – vultures, _see the vultures circling in dark clouds_. Louis, who’s Harry’s hiding place.

_I know places_

Louis keeps his gaze fixed ahead, wide blue eyes shining in the dim light. It’s not Louis’ kind of music, per se, Taylor’s crossover-y pop being more Niall’s type, and yet it’s precisely Louis’ kind – a big, epic declaration of love, about protecting each other and fighting no matter what.

Harry focuses back on the lyrics when Taylor’s voice gets trenchant and cutting on the _all the damn time, not this time,_ and _Just grab my hand and don't ever drop it, my love,_ and _they are the hunters, we are the foxe-_

Foxes? _Foxes?_ Harry bursts into laughter before he can truly understand why, just a flash. Oh shit, it’s such a tiny detail, and maybe that’s not what Taylor was hinting at. But if it was, then Louis wasn’t kidding about the references to Harry.

“What? What?” Louis asks, elbowing him when Harry just keeps cackling and cackling.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, shaking his head and trying to regain some composure. “I’m sorry, just, you know when you remember a random detail about something?”

Louis nods, still looking at him like he’s out of his mind. Harry suddenly realises that he’s never told that particular story to Louis. They don’t reminisce about those times often and, while they were actually in those times, they definitely didn’t sit around discussing Harry’s conversations with Taylor.

“It’s just – I think it was one of our first outings, and I had just arrived, and someone was putting make up on her. And she turned to me, and said, in her _excited_ voice,” he moves his hands in the air, to convey the _excitement_ , “’Hi, how are you? I love your shirt’. No idea what shirt was it. And I, um, I didn’t know what to answer.” He shrugs, shakes his head. “I wanted to be nice, okay, but I also genuinely didn’t want to be there.”

He’s interrupted by Louis pressing a kiss to his temple, and he takes it as a good sign. At least Louis can stomach the subject. “My poor, polite baby. So what did you say?” Louis asks, his voice tingling like a bell.

“I, like, dropped my eyes down, and she was wearing a sweater with a _fox_ on it. Like, the animal.”

Louis purses his lips. “Mh-mh.”

“So I said, ‘Thank you. Your sweater’s very… foxy’. And then I left.”

It’s not a funny story. Well, Taylor’s confused face had been quite funny, but being told, in Harry’s monotone, never-ending stammering? It can’t be funny. That doesn’t stop Louis from laughing, delighted and wet-eyed, and trailing a hand behind Harry’s neck, and pulling him in, and laughing some more in his mouth.

They kiss as Taylor’s foxes run from their hunters, and they kiss as _they take their shots, we're bulletproof_ , and it’s a bit wonderful, and a bit fitting, because Harry and Louis are ready to run, and they are fireproof, and it’s been so long. _And nobody saves me baby, the way you do_.

They come up for air and Harry snuggles into Louis’ neck, biting its flesh and marvelling at the rabbiting pulse under his teeth, and at how much it mirrors his own. “I love you,” he murmurs there, on the barely flushed skin, “I don’t care if she sells more than we do.”

“Not an _if_ , I’m afraid,” Louis comments idly, massaging Harry’s scalp with one hand. “But I could still be surprised.”

“Do you want my professional opinion on the song?” Harry asks, his voice made syrupy by the fingers playing with his hair, but he can feel Louis shake his head.

Louis takes the clicker and turns the music off. “Nope,” he answers, moving Harry’s legs away from him and standing up, careful not to wake Bruce, who’s peacefully sleeping. “I want you to cook me dinner.”

They move to the kitchen lazily, without any urgency and maybe a bit emotional, clinging to each other like they’re afraid of getting lost.

“What would you like?” Harry asks when they are both in front of the fridge. They should probably go grocery shopping sometimes in the next days. Alfred always offers to do it for them, but having someone else buy food for him makes Harry uneasy. He allows it, when they physically don’t have the time and can’t live off take away pizzas anymore, but he likes to browse, to choose, to know exactly what’s in his kitchen. Louis only humours him because he wouldn’t have the nerve to put half the shit he buys on an actual grocery list (he may be a bit convinced that, if no one saw him eating that entire candy bar, then it didn’t happen), and because he won’t ever admit it, but he’s just as enamoured with their domesticity as Harry is.

“The steaks!” Louis exclaims suddenly. “I think we defrosted two steaks yesterday, before deciding to go out.”

“Oh, right.” Harry opens the fridge and takes out the delicious Angus beef sitting on the top shelf. “I cook, you chop?” he asks with a grin, nodding toward their wide array of vegetables.

“Mpf. I had to endure more than an hour of Tay-Tay’s overproduced shrills. You should coddle me, not exploit me,” Louis moans, but he reaches for a bag of lettuce and some tomatoes and carrots, and an apple because Harry finally convinced him that putting fruit into salads is a legitimate thing.

They both get to work, Harry at the stove and Louis at their kitchen island, the room silent but for the sizzling of the steaks and the cutting noises.

Five minutes must go by – and honestly Harry spends them narrating the procedure in his head as if he were on a cooking show-, before he hears a distinct mumble from Louis, who has abandoned the vegetables and is scrolling down his phone with a pensive frown.

“What?” Harry asks, watching him with the corner of his eye. The meat is half-way ready – has to be well done, because Louis doesn’t like being reminded that it was bloody once.

Louis clears his throat. “Apple chief executive Tim Cook has publicly acknowledged his sexuality, saying that he is ‘proud to be gay’,” he reads, with a tone so sharp it makes Harry turn around fully, and forget about their meal.

“That’s, um, great,” Harry says, but it comes out more like a question.

“Course it is.” Louis locks his phone and puts it down on the table, then picks up a carrot and starts munching on it. “You know, I used to be overjoyed when a public figure came out, some time ago. Now I just want to send them an email and ask them how many lawyers meetings they had to sit through before they could do it.”

Harry hopes the sizzling covers the sound of his heart breaking a little. “You know,” he replies, trying for nonchalant to cover up the hoarseness in his voice. “You probably could, if you wanted. Ask, I mean.”

Louis laughs, low and humourless. “It’d be an interesting conversation, that’s for sure.” He takes a breath then, grips the piece of carrot in his hand as if it were a dagger, eyes cast downward. “You know I don’t really care about coming out, do you. It would be nice and all but –“ he cuts himself off, and he does the lip-biting thing that means he won’t cry, but he would feel better if he did. Harry forgets what he’s doing and is on him in an instant, taking as much of Louis in his arms as he can.

“I know, I know, Lou, I know.”

“Just tell me it won’t happen again, please.”

Harry caresses Louis’ back with steady up and down strokes, and braces himself for what’s to come. “What doesn’t have to happen again?”

“Taylor Swift,” Louis says, voice so feeble he may have not uttered any sound at all, but there’s no mistaking the two words.

Harry stares confusedly at him for a bit, because he can count on a hand the times he’s heard Louis pronouncing her full name, been years since he might have needed to. “No, of course – you know it’s not going to happen again.”

“A lot of things I knew weren’t going to happen _happened_ in the last years, Harry,” he states with nothing but dullness in his tone, and it’s maybe the matter-of-factness of it that makes it so painful to hear. “I know you had a meeting about it, while I was conveniently out of town.”

And it’s true, Harry did, and didn’t tell him. Didn’t tell him because they have unspoken rules about it, unspoken rules about unnecessary hurt and about being able to tell each other everything, but not _having to_. And those are great rules, healthy rules, so why do they bloody suck?

“And I said no,” Harry replies, firm. “I think she’s going for another angle now, as well. Who told you?”

“Richard.” Oh, that bastard, that _bastard_. “I guess he reckoned that, even if you had said no, he could still do some damage.” Louis shrugs, but Harry can feel him vibrating under his hands.

“I’m sorry, Lou.” Harry’s mouth is dry and full of sawdust, and each word has to dig his way out. “I’m sorry for not telling you.”

“Hey, no, that’s okay.” Louis lifts a hand to Harry’s collar and tugs him down until their noses touch. He looks at him, just looks at Harry with his tremendous eyes, before leaning forward and joining their lips. It’s just a peck, really, because soon enough Louis is smirking against him. “Babe, you should probably turn that steaks.”

“Oh, buggering –” Harry runs back to the stove with a piercing cry, but is relieved to see that the steaks will only be a tad tougher than they should be. “They’re safe, kind of,” he announces, a bit breathless. He really couldn’t do with another not-homecooked meal.

“My hero,” Louis declares, and Harry turns to see him with a hand on his chest, swooning.

“Well, you know, when the steaks are at stake –”

“Do not, Harry, do not even finish that sentence,” Louis says, but he’s giggling, which means Harry’s job is done.

Harry settles the steaks onto two plates as Louis pours dressing on the salad and sets the table. They could move to the dining room, or to the _other_ dining room, but they both like the intimacy of the kitchen more. They don’t need most of the space in this house, or in the LA house, but a giant mansion is what is expected of them, isn’t it?

(Plus, someday… they have plans for the extra space. They have plans.)

“Anyway,” Louis starts as they take their seats, “the Tim Cook thing, that’s good. Makes me want to buy a supportive t-shirt or, I dunno. A new mac.”

Harry snorts, pouring some wine in their glasses. “You don’t need a new mac. You don’t need new gadgets in general. Have you ever used those google glasses again, after filming your acclaimed documentary about substance abuse in Peru?”

“Oh my _God_. This again. I’ve used them at least two other times. A bit backstage on tour, and don’t you remember that time with the blindfold and the whipped cream?” Louis asks, all batting eyelashes, sucking a bite of steak out of the fork like it were, um – _something else_. “And the cream wasn’t the only one to get whipped that night.”

Harry keeps his head down and his eyes on the table for the rest of the meal, because he hates eating with a boner and he knows Louis is looking at him with that shit-eating grin that makes Harry want to wreck him. It’s only when his plate has been cleared that he timidly raises his gaze and asks, gingerly, “You did keep that video, right?”

Louis smirks like a cat who’s caught the mouse.

 

 

** 1st of November - But a drop of blood can make the sea turn red **

 

Sometimes Louis makes them rewatch an interview so he can give Harry the proper reactions, say the things he would have said if he could, laugh freely at Harry's jokes when they're funny and take the piss when they're not, give him sloppy kisses whenever Harry makes a thoughtful comment, or has to answer a difficult question.

Sometimes it's fun.

(when they can gloss over how sad everything is, how they can see their selves twitch and fidget like guinea pigs in cages, how every glance, every fond look is a conquest and a failure, and so not enough, like coming up for air right before being swallowed by another wave, sea water flooding their lungs, their eyes, their ears, and would all the showers one can take in a lifetime be enough to wash the salt from their skin?)

Sometimes it's fun.

_“Who would you want to bring with you on tour? [After Liam answers ‘The Mrs’] Same for you, Louis?”_

Sometimes it's not.

 

 

** 2nd – The effect the atmosphere has on the appearance of an object as it is viewed from a distance **

**  
**

“And then there’s Jack, have I told you about Jack?” Louis says, his hands flailing everywhere, basically skipping instead of walking. “You gotta meet Jack.”

Louis has indeed told Harry about Jack, but his excited announcement is addressed to the whole band. Still, when Zayn puts a hand on Louis’ shoulder and softly informs him that yeah, they know about Jack, Harry can’t hold back a laugh.

“You,” Louis stops in the middle of the aisle, and lifts an accusing finger, “are all dicks. You don’t deserve to meet my protégé. Go lick Simon’s arse a bit more, for all I care.”

“Only if you make space, Louis,” Liam replies easily, and he’s kind of right. Not that Harry has anything against licking Simon’s arse. Or licking anyone’s arse, in general. He has great consideration for the noble art of arse licking, in all its varieties.

As long as Simon and his associates are on board with making Harry and Louis’ lives easier, he is all for sharing.

“It’s advised to put one’s head out of his own arse before putting it onto someone else’s, Liam,” Louis deadpans and, as Niall chokes on his chuckles, he reaches to hold Harry’s wrist. “Now, I’m bringing Harry to meet Jack, and you can all fuck off.”

With a swift twirl on his heels, he darts off through the backstage area of Wembley. They all know how the place his built, they’ve played it enough times, but Louis walks through it with a bubbliness he doesn’t always show for their own gigs. And okay, touring can be tedious, like months of Groundhog days, and Louis needs constant stimuli or he starts digesting his own brain, but his love for The X Factor is not something Harry would have anticipated. It’s like, as Louis grew more aware of the inner games of the industry, he started itching for his own set of cards, eager to seat at the table instead of being a mere gaming chip.

And there was that thing about the production company…

“So, what is Jack singing this week?” Zayn asks, the three of them apparently following Louis’ lead.

Louis lets out a groan, and shakes his head. “Don’t get me started. They’ve given him _Bleeding Love_. I love male artists covering female artists, but Rihanna, Paul Abdul and now Leona Lewis?” His grasp on Harry’s wrist tightens just a tad. “To be honest, I’ll be surprised if he survives this week,” he finishes weakly.

“They’re doing a piss poor job with the lad,” Niall intercepts as they take a turn and enter the theatre proper, where the stage is being prepared for their performance. “Trying to make him something he’s not, and he’s not good at faking. Make him sing some Ed Sheeran, and the votes will come pouring in.”

“Mel B doesn’t like him. He has no future on the show,” Louis says, bitter and dry. “I just hope there’s something for him outside of here,” he continues, wistfully, voice soft and with an edge of rawness, and maybe Louis’ statement is not as hypothetical as it sounds. His eyes light up, though, when he catches sight of an unkempt quiff and yells, “Jack! Jack, c’mere.”

Jack is up from his seat and running toward them in a second, all naïve enthusiasm and starstruck mumbling, and he’s – what? Three, four years younger than Harry?, but it feels like a lifetime, and Harry has trouble remembering what that felt like, the uncertainty and the novelty and the _I-can’t-believe-this-is-my-life_. And thinking that the dream is going to end so fast for him, if what Louis has predicted comes through – Harry gets why Louis wants to get involved.

Behind Jack’s overcompensating nonchalance, every _I’m just a normal Yorkshire lad_ , Harry understands more and more clearly what Louis sees in the bloke – rather simply, and rather obviously, himself. Louis is open, and passionate, and mentor-y, introducing Jack to the band with an arm around his shoulders, throwing casual compliments at him whenever Jack says something self-deprecating, and Harry hears echoes of a young Louis’ _there are so many better singers than me here_.

It stirs something hot and boiling in Harry, something like shame, because he can’t stop his thoughts, the way a voice at the back of his head screams _It’s just a boy with an acoustic guitar, average voice, not much personality, what do you want to do with him?_ , and _He’s not like you at all, you were a supernova, a flaring ball of energy and light that filled every dark corner of recycled telly formats and saved our four dull arses, you made us_ , but that’s the point, innit? He thinks, _go and make him too, change the rules, bend them, reach so high you’ll be the one making them_.

“I’m sure you’re going to be just fine,” Harry tells Jack as they are saying their goodbyes and, as much as Jack will probably be sent home this weekend, he sneaks a glance at Louis and finds that he means it.

 

 

** 3rd – Almost important **

 

“ _Not that important_ , oh my,” Nick greets, voice loud and saucy even through the phone. “Mister Styles, let me congratulate you. Possibly with champagne and maybe a flood of vodka.”

“I don’t -” Harry starts, because he promised Louis he wouldn’t surrender, and he needs the sleep tonight, but it’s so _hard_ to say no to Nick. It’s hard to say no to anyone.

“So what did the hubby say? Is he happy? Is he coming tonight?” Nick continues. “He should. You know I love me some Tommo time.”

Harry takes a deep breath, apparently loud enough to make Nick momentarily shut up. “I’m not even sure _I’m_ coming. I’ll ask, though –”

“See, you’ll ask! You’re coming, babe, sorry.”

“- and, um. He hasn’t said anything, yet.” Harry frowns, and hopes everyone’s too busy with rehearsals to see him frowning in a corner on the phone. Thing is, he doesn’t even know if Louis has seen the interview. They’ve talked about it when it had been filmed, so there’s that. It’s just that the interview is suddenly everywhere, the views steadily increasing and aiming toward viral, and, like, they knew it was going to happen – it was staged for it to happen, and it’s being pushed in that direction, but maybe Harry does feel a bit like it calls for a celebration.

“Well, that’s it. You have to bring him, and I’ll teach him to properly cherish your tiny rebellious heart,” Nick says, and Harry can hear his wide grin through the phone, the I-know-I’ve-won grin. “Just tell him not to wear one of those hideous vintage football jackets he’s always sporting these days, you know I have a delicate stomach.”

“I’m not sure that will help convincing him to come, Nick.” Harry casts a glance to his side, where Louis and Liam are messing around with Jon, singing random stuff and having a laugh, Louis happily huddled in a Fc Barcelona jacket.

“Come on, Harold. Talk to the man, make him whip out some braces for old time’s sake and show off those curves of his.”

Harry laughs, loud enough to catch Louis’ attention, make him turn and raise an eyebrow at him. Harry waves him off with a wink, and refrains from telling Nick that Louis does, from time to time, whip out the braces and put on a show for him, because Nick already knows enough of their sex life as it is. “Alright, Nick,” he says, gaze still on Louis, who has returned his attention to whatever it is they’re doing. His eyes slide down, where the fabric of his sweats stretches on his bum. He bites his bottom lip and mumbles into the phone, “Text me the details, I’ll see you later.”

“Oh dear, I don’t even want to know why your voice dropped five octaves. Laters, popstar.”

Harry hangs up with a chuckle and pockets his phone, then makes his way to Louis, who’s still dancing and jamming, now also with Niall, Dan and a distraught Helene, who looks torn between trying to get them to go back to rehearsing and listening to what they’re producing.

“Lou,” Harry calls softly, tapping Louis’ back. Louis twists around with a surprised yelp, and smiles immediately when he sees it’s him. “How do you feel about drinks tonight?”

Behind them, Helene finally coaxes the rest of the band to get to work, and Harry knows he has two minutes, tops, before someone starts yelling for them.

“I thought you were feeling a bit under the weather today, love,” Louis says, taking a step toward him and entering the proverbial HarryandLouis bubble. Harry beams, because he’s a big fan of the HarryandLouis bubble.

“I’m doing better, though.” Harry preens more, if possible, when Louis raises a hand to his cheek and shifts a loose curl behind his ear. “I’ve sneezed no more than ten times today.” He snuffles twice, for good measure, and leans into Louis’ touch.

“… and?” Louis prompts, with a quirked eyebrow.

“And James called,” Harry admits. “Then Nick called. They pouted.”

“They were on the _phone_.” Louis bumps a fist gently against his chest, then spreads his fingers and keeps it there, above Harry’s heart. It may as well be beating just for him.

“They have very convincing pouty voices.”

“Oh God, alright,” Louis squeals, but his eyes morph into lovely crinkling slits, with the sparkling blue of a sea at midday. “I’m not going to give you the Learn How To Say No speech, just know that I’m thinking it.”

“I’m thinking of the Stop Being Cranky And Come With Me speech,” Harry replies. And okay, maybe Louis’ speech is an actual thing Harry should probably work on, while Louis accompanies Harry everywhere, even when he doesn’t like the people, and never makes a big deal out of it, so skipping one night out is fine. But James and Nick are Louis’ friends as well, and it’s not the same when he isn’t there. They work better as a foursome.

“Don’t be a pain in the arse, I have a skype date with Stan.” Louis rolls his eyes, his voice tinged with fond exasperation. “He’s going crazy about his dissertation or something. Cultured people shit. I’ll make him drink and remind him you don’t need a degree to make millions.”

“Such a role model you are, Tommo,” Harry chuckles, putting his hand on Louis’, its weight warming his thorax and his mind.

“Helping others,” Louis says, all sarcasm and brashness when he speaks of himself. “That’s it, my true aim in life.”

And Harry has to bite back the You’re A Wonderful Person Who Does Wonderful Things speech, even though he has it warm and ready to go at any moment. But this is not the time nor the place, and Louis doesn’t really do well with compliments, especially when he’s unsure he deserves them. He changes the subject then, and hopes the extra squeeze on Louis’ tiny hand conveys a bit of what he’d like to say. “Speaking of, can you look up Hibiscus’ menu and decide what you want to eat tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, uh?” Louis furrows his eyebrows, but recovers quickly enough. “Oh, dinner with your dad. Sure thing. I love Hibiscus.”

“I know,” Harry smirks, because he’s always taken the saying _the way to a man's heart is through his stomach_ quite seriously, and it’s always worked (also in reverse: they don’t reminisce of the chicken wrapped in Parma ham with anyone who’ll listen because they have a passion for _poultry_ ). “And can you, like, call them and ask them to deliver everything? There’s a list in the kitchen with dad’s order and mine.”

Louis agrees just as a choir begins chanting their names with varying degrees of frustration and amusement. They both let out simultaneous giggles, and Louis stands up on his tiptoes to plant a delicate peck on Harry’s lips.

When he’s satisfied, he detaches and scuttles to the rehearsal area, all cheek and cockiness, and proclaims, his arms raised, “Don’t waste your voices, loves, you’ll all get a picture and an autograph if you behave.”

Niall laughs, Liam shakes his head fondly, everybody else groans and Harry loves him so, so much.

 

*

 

Louis doesn’t join them, which is fine.

He doesn’t wait up for Harry, which is fine.

He falls asleep on the couch with an empty bottle of wine beside him, which is fine.

When Harry tries to wake him up or carry him upstairs, he mumbles something about leaving him there, that he’ll see Harry in the morning.

Which is _fine_.

 

 

** 4th – Shiny happy fits of rage **

 

“So, when did the Hibiscus people say they were bringing the food?” Harry asks, pleasantly, while he takes his boots off. It’s been a long day of rehearsals, with Louis being a bit more… _caustic_ than usual, and he has still the shadow of a headache from last night. Plus he got another wave of texts and calls about the Ode interview and subsequent articles –not that he’s complaining, he isn’t complaining _at all_ , but he’s fucking ready for a quiet night in with his dad and his boyfriend and some overpriced but utterly delicious food.

He most definitely doesn’t expect for Louis to make a face and ask, “Who?”

Harry squints his eyes at him, carefully. Is Louis taking the piss? “What do you mean who? I told you yesterday to call them.”

Louis frowns and looks up like the ceiling may old the answer to all of life’s questions. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then lets out a loud, open-mouthed _‘ow’,_ like he’s had an epiphany worthy of James Joyce. “Dinner with Des! Right, you’re right,” and then, cool as a cucumber, “I completely forgot, sorry love.”

“You, um. You forgot?” Harry stills, a boot still in hand. “Did you forget you called them, or that you _had_ to call them?”

“I didn’t call them, Harry.” Louis disappears into their walk-in closet, which is something he _knows_ irritates Harry, and Harry tries not to think about throwing his boot after him.

“You didn’t call them,” he echoes, trying to keep his voice as calm as he can.

“No, I didn’t, I’m sorry.” Louis re-emerges, sounding not sorry at all.  At least he’s changed into a shirt, now. “We can find a solution, though.”

 “Okay, do tell.” Harry plops down on their bed and crosses his legs, looking at Louis expectantly. By the way Louis is scratching the back of his neck, Harry is not going to like his answer.

“Well, you could throw something together, right? You’re great at last minute meals,” Louis says with a squeaky tone. Harry hopes it means he’s aware of how much he has fucked up.

He shakes his head, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m not giving my father a last minute meal,” he says, low and incredulous. “I haven’t seen him in months. I don’t want him to think I don’t give a shit.”

“So, ah- I guess ordering a pizza is out of the question?”

“Louis. Please,” he hisses, untangling his legs and fidgeting with his rings. He doesn’t want to fight with Louis, especially not when there’s nothing to fight about. He’s lucid enough to know that they are just getting on each other nerves here, with no real substance behind it, but not lucid enough to put an end to it. It’s what people who love each other do when they can’t cope with external tension.

“Oh, Haz, come on,” Louis whines with an eyeroll, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this? I made a mistake, I’m sorry. You’re stressed, I know. We all are. It’s a stressful period. Just call Hibiscus and make them send the food now,” he says, like Harry’s an idiot for not thinking about it, and then adds, tartly, “It’s not like they are going to say not to you.”

Which is true, and also really fucking _not nice_. Harry feels his nostrils flare.

“Oh my God, you fucking _diva_ ,” Harry spits, and a wave of regret pushes through him as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he doesn’t know how to stop. “I’m not using my name because you couldn’t even pick a fucking dish and tell an assistant to make a reservation.”

If Louis was mildly annoyed before, he’s furious now, the kind of furious that he hides behind when he’s been hurt. “I told you I’m sorry, what else do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, show a little interest?”

“For what? It’s just a dinner, Harry.”

“A dinner with my bloody _father_.” Harry’s eyes are as wide as saucers, and he doesn’t know when they started truly yelling, doesn’t even know if he feels so vehemently about this to mean what he’s about to say, but he does. “Fuck, you know what? You clearly don’t give a fuck, so don’t even bother coming.”

Louis glares at him with wide eyes, looking ready to argue, but he doesn’t. “Fine, whatever you want,” he says, the vitriol no longer enough to disguise the shaky quality of his voice.

“Have a good evening,” he finishes and walks out of the room, fast, eyes resolutely on the floor as he does.

Harry stares at the open door long after Louis has vanished. He stands up to go after him, at one point, and he couldn’t say if it’s to yell at him some more, or to kiss him and tell him that it’s okay, that he gets why Louis has been such a pain all day even if he doesn’t, really, but maybe this way Louis would tell him.

Harry still has a dad to see and possibly feed, though. Louis will wait.

He phones Hibiscus, where a polite manager is _thrilled_ to offer a table to Harry Styles and his guest, then phones his dad and tells him he’ll pick him up in a bit. He puts on a suit like an automatism, his head full of static, of _do not think of Louis_. Is thinking of not thinking about him still thinking about him?

When he’s ready, in the foyer with his coat on, he calls out “I’m leaving”, but he gets no answer. Louis is probably holed up in the home theatre, or the basement. Prick.

Dinner is fine, the food amazing as always, but Harry can’t enjoy it. Even his dad, who’s not the most perceptive person on the planet, notices that something’s off. He seems genuinely sorry that Louis isn’t there with them and, when Harry just mumbles an excuse, he refills Harry’s wineglass and asks, a bit gingerly, what is going on. It’s not quite like talking to his mum, who always has the solution to everything, but it’s nice. Very nice. By the end of it, Harry’s ready to go home and settle their argument with some tea and an extensive cuddle session.

Problem is, when he gets there, Louis is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30th – Title from ‘Turn And Turn Again’ by All Thieves  
> 31st – Title from ‘I Know Places’ by Taylor Swift


	2. Chapter 2

** 5th – You want more fans, I want more stage **

 

Louis has a bit of a habit of running from problems.

He can bury people in the ground with words when he knows he’s right, be vicious when he has to defend himself, and downright brutal when he has to defend someone else. But when he fucks up and can’t deny it, not even to himself, he picks up and runs.

And Harry gets it, he does. Louis is a loose cannon, threatening to go off as soon as he feels attacked, and running helps minimise the collateral damage. It may be a good thing, even, preventing him from doing and saying things he doesn’t mean.

It’s rather futile, though, if he gives Harry a heart attack instead.

He takes hold of the note on his nightstand and rereads it, hoping for it to be more enlightening now than it was last night.

Louis’ scribbled _gone out, see you tomorrow_ is still as nondescript as ever. It is tomorrow now, and Louis is still nowhere to be found and, if Harry had somehow managed to be nonchalant about it yesterday, figuring Louis was out for a pint and didn’t want Harry to wait up, he is properly panicking now. For all he knows, Louis could be in Doncaster now. Or at the Seychelles. Or lying in a bloody ditch.

He lies in bed for ages, keeping to his half even if there’s no real need to, like he does when he’s in a hotel room alone, and weights his options. When Selina climbs on his pillow and starts licking his face, he gives up. He will call Louis.

He dials the number in his phone without watching, his fingers moving by themselves, and he puts so much anticipation and dread into pressing the call button that his stomach sinks when it goes straight to voicemail. He checks Louis’ whatsapp then, and he hasn’t been on till yesterday evening.

He turned off his phone, the prick.

If Louis wants to be alone, Harry will respect that. Not, like, easily, but he will. But what if he doesn’t, and he’s just being a proud and stubborn idiot?

Louis only ever turns off his personal phone if he’s guilty about something, usually more than happy to let the other person know he’s ignoring them by letting the phone ring or reading their texts and not responding. If his phone is off, it’s not to prevent someone from reaching him, but to prevent himself from reaching out.

At least, that’s what Harry tells himself while he calls Alberto.

Alberto picks up after two rings, and he sounds only a tad confused when Harry can’t contain a frantic ‘Thank God’. The thing is, Alberto is a tomb, who answers politely with a series of _I don’t knows_ and _Sorrys_ and _Haven’t heard from hims_ that seem so genuine Harry almost believes him by the time they hang up.

If Alberto really has no idea, Louis is either at a friend’s or at his mum’s. If Alberto is with him, he will tell Louis, because Alberto’s a bit on Harry’s side as well.

So Harry gets up and goes to make breakfast, same as he always does. Showers. Takes Bruce out for a light jog, then deposits him and his short adorable legs at home and goes for a real run. He runs so fast he feels his lungs might collapse, and the beat of his heart is so loud in his ears that he almost misses his phone ringing with a text.

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, it’s probably Gemma or his mum checking up on him, nothing to do with Louis. He somehow finds enough willpower to jog his way home, his phone a dead weight in his pocket, bouncing against his thigh at every movement. He didn’t even notice it was there before, and now it’s all he can think about. There’s a traffic light right before their house, and it’s red now, of course, and he could just do it, right? Take it out, read the message, put it back. All before the light turns green. He thinks about it so intensely, thinks about all the pros and cons, that the light is already green when he watches next, and there’s a guy sitting in a car staring at him weirdly.

Harry shakes his head and crosses the street as fast as he can, and in no time he’s in his home, Bruce barking a welcome at his feet. When he eventually reads the texts, he’s glad he’s indoors so he doesn’t have to contain his ‘bloody fucking hell’, loud enough to elicit a confused woof from Bruce.

It’s Alberto. Apparently, Louis is staying at the Ritz in Paris.

 

*

 

It’s such a Louis thing to do, though. Harry calls him a diva, and Louis goes and books a room in one of the poshest places in Europe. Harry wants to march to Paris, yell at him for making him worry like crazy, and also cuddle him a lot and apologise for overreacting.

And it’s what he would do, if only the world would cooperate. Louis let him know where he was and now Harry will cock it up and not arrive in time and they will break up and he will have to get a giant dragon tattooed on his left arm to cover the anchor, the ship and everything else.

He may be overreacting again.

www.fly.co.uk informs him that the first available flight to Paris is in six hours and, even if Harry could just hop on a commercial flight, it would still be too late than he wants to. The thought that Louis might be coming back just as Harry flies to Paris makes him breathe into a paperbag for a bit.

If Louis runs from things, Harry is a fixer. He needs to fix things and make everybody happy and possibly do it as soon as possible, maybe right now, like, this very second. He’s a fixer and also in dire need of a trustworthy personal assistant, or at least a manager who can solve problems instead of creating more. His go-to person for those things has always been Paul, but now there has been talk of layoffs and new tour managers and the last thing Harry needs today is getting into that.

He just sits there with his head in his hands, without an idea, thinking of Louis strolling along the Champs-Élysées or getting a massage from a fit French man in the Ritz’s spa. He wishes he could be angry, but all he feels is terrible loneliness. Fuck, there’s not even Alfred in the house today. Harry told him that, since he and Louis had a day off, Alfred may as well take one too, that the house would still be spotless even if he skipped a day.

To be fair, Harry had mostly done it because he had planned many rounds of kitchen sex, and living room sex, and home theatre sex, and kitchen sex again for lunch and dinner, and maybe some king size bed sex after that. Sitting at a table with a laptop and no hope is a frankly sad development. Even Selina is staring at him with pity. Not that Selina’s range of expressions is much wider usually. Or more positive.

He’s busy contemplating the shambles is life has become and that, yeah, maybe now he gets what Louis means when he says he feels judged by the cat, when his phone goes off with an impetuous vibration that makes him scream out and Selina stand up and arch her back with disdain.

It’s his mum. He picks up and tries to put some cheerfulness in his ‘Hello’. It’s nice to know that there’s someone who cares for him, even if Louis has abandoned him and will now find himself a pretty Parisian masseur and relocate to the French Riviera.

“Hello, dear. Am I interrupting something?” she asks, and Harry wants to cry a bit.

“I wish,” he murmurs. Which, in retrospect, may not be something you should say to your mum.

“What?” she yelps, somewhere between reproachful and amused.

“No, I mean. Louis isn’t here.”

“And where is he?”

“Um, out,” he starts. He could lie, be a tad less pathetic, and then he’d be a lonely bastard who’s just lied to him mum. “He’s in Paris.”

“I didn’t know that. I thought you had a day off. Is he –um, is he with Eleanor?”

What? “No, God no,” he clarifies. Though if he’s being honest he doesn’t _actually_ know. Hell, that’d be a story. Closeted boybander discovers he likes his beard more than his boyfriend, ditches him to go have a swarm of Topshop-wearing babies that can share both of their parents’ genetic material at once.

“Then why is he there?”

“We had. Sort of. Like. A fight, I guess.”

“And he flew off to Paris? When? What did you fight about?”

“Mh. He forgot about dinner with dad, yesterday, and things got. Kinda heated. I went out with dad, alone. When I came back, he wasn’t there.”

“So he’s the one at fault, I gather.”

“Kind of. I don’t care, though, I just want to go to him.”

He may be getting a little weepy. He reckons it’s justified, no matter how judgemental Selina’s eyes get.

“Are you sure he doesn’t maybe want to spend some time on his own?”

“I don’t know, mum. He let me know where he is, though. He knew I would reach him. If I don’t go… I don’t want him to think I don’t care.”

“I think he knows you care, sweetie. But if you think this is the right thing to do, what’s stopping you?”

“I can’t find a flight. I can’t find a bloody flight.”

“Why don’t you take a car, or the train?” she asks, patiently, and Harry almost has a syncope. “The Eurostar only takes two hours, doesn’t it?”

Indeed. “That’s. Quite brilliant, actually. I, um, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Problem solved, then, innit?”

“Right, right,” his throat is raw and dry, his hands itch. He has a trip to arrange. He needs to make calls. Where do you even take the Eurostar from? But he can’t hang up on his mother like that. What kind of son would that make him? “You called, though. Did you want anything? Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m great,” she says around a chuckle, “You can call me from the car if you want to make small talk, baby. Go get your idiot now.”

 “Thanks, mummy. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Probably not be born, love,” she titters. “Love you, bye.”

The line goes dead before he has a chance to say goodbye. He sends her a text full of xs, then remains with his phone in his hands, meditating.

He could go by himself. It wouldn’t be the first time. It wouldn’t also be the first time he gets yelled at when their team finds out, enumerating all the security issues he may have had and all the terrible terrible things that may have happened to him, everything they can say to cover their annoyance at him retaining a sliver of control over his own life.

In the end, he calls Cal.

 

*

 

Cal is many things, and may not have been exactly on board with the idea at the beginning, but when Harry had simply said he was going whether Cal was coming or not, he had sighed and worked his magic. Four hours later, Harry is sitting in a cab in the Ritz’ garage, where a manager is waiting to bring him to Louis’ room. Cal pushes him out of the car with a pat on his shoulder, and the taxi doesn’t even wait for the door to be fully closed before driving off.

Harry stares after it with uneasiness until it disappears. So he’s truly here, uh.

“Mister Styles?” the manager asks carefully and, oh, right, of course. “Please, this way.”

The lift ride to Louis’ floor is endless and not long enough and, when the manager plants him in front of the right door, Harry wants to ask if they can maybe go down and up again, just a couple of times, just to think a little more. But Monsier Bernard shakes his hand, dumps a card key in his palm and leaves before Harry has a chance to say ‘Je suis allé au cinema’.

It’s not too late to leave. Technically. Maybe his mum is right. Maybe he should leave Louis alone. But, oh God, Louis is right there, a wall away. Harry could call out and Louis may hear him. And maybe he does want to see Harry. Talk to him. Touch him maybe. Just a cuddle would be fine. Louis is such a good cuddler.

He swipes the card, breathes in and out, and enters.

He can’t tell what he expected. What he finds is Louis and Alberto in sweatpants playing at Wii golf on a giant plasma screen, with a tray of chips and pastries at arm’s reach.

The room is a flurry of golden and deep azures and antiques, and Louis is wearing a pair of trackies that Harry bought before the X Factor. It’s one of the best things he’s ever seen.

“Hazza,” Louis utters, breathy and wide-eyed, when he turns around and spots him. He lets the joystick fall on the carpet underneath him. “Oh, dear.”

Harry’s still at the door, unsure of what to do, but suddenly Louis is right there in front of him, no more than a foot apart, and they both just _look_. Louis already had a scruff yesterday and he hasn’t shaved today, he’s rugged and beautiful and Harry wants to feel it under his hands.

“Hazza,” Louis repeats, and one of them must hug the other first, but Harry wouldn’t be able to tell. He hides his head into Louis’ neck, his arms around Louis’ tiny tiny waist, and he doesn’t even notice when he is lifting Louis up, not until one of Louis’ legs hooks behind his calf.

“I’m so sorry, so so sorry,” Louis murmurs into his ear, over and over. Harry distantly registers Alberto slipping out of the door behind him, and makes a note to thank him _lots_ later, for everything he’s done and keeps doing for him and Louis, but right now his world is all a blur of Louis, Louis’ solid weight and his smell and his warmth and the texture of his beard against Harry’s cheek.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, and he means it, somehow.

Whether Louis believes him or not, he pushes on the back of Harry’s neck and holds him into a bruising, scorching kiss, and brings his feet back on the ground. From there they stumble, they kiss, they shed clothes, their legs and arms and bodies and mouths tangling and untangling as they reach the bed and fall on it, without grace, without delicacy, without the nerve to laugh together when they trip on each other and it would hurt, if the edges of pain weren’t overflowing with sparkling pleasure and want. Louis’ careful fingers untie Harry’s bun and slide into his free hair, rough enough for Harry’s eyes to sting and his cock and nipples to stiffen, and oh – they should take their shirts off. They separate just for it, their eyes stuck on each other even as they work, and when they’re finally naked they grasp and grip and stroke, rolling around and switching positions and burying their faces in their necks, because Louis smells like home for Harry, and Harry does the same for Louis, home in London and home in Paris and home in all the fifty cities of a worldwide tour. They get each other off, cocks brushing and thrusting, dry because the sting of friction keeps them grounded, and it’s a bit more and a bit less than sex.

They come, almost at the same time and moaning into each other’s mouth, but it’s not about that. It’s a remainder. It’s their thing, the same that kept them afloat during their darkest moments. When Harry had eaten Louis out for an hour the day of the _load of bullshit_ tweet, when they hadn’t even known how to talk about it. When Louis had fucked Harry on their living room carpet, the week before Harry had to kiss Taylor at New Year’s Eve.

And Harry’s not an idiot, and there are no such things as soulmates and destinies and red strings of fate, but this must be what it would feel like. Synergy, they call it. Being two wholes, and yet, together, being more than the sum of their individual parts.

“We should –uh, get cleaned up,” Louis mutters, gruff and sharp. They’re lying on their backs, hands clasped between them, eyes trained on the ceiling. Come is drying on Harry’s belly and thigh, pulling at his skin. They should get cleaned up.

“Mh, let’s stay here some more, please,” he whispers, turning on his side to face Louis. He has such a nice profile – cutting cheekbones and sharp jaw and thin lips, and arched eyebrows and silky hair and a bit of a potato nose. Prettiest nose in the world, as far as Harry is concerned.

Louis hums, low in his throat, and brings their joined hands on his warm stomach. “As long as you want, love.” Harry can feel Louis’ diaphragm under his touch, and it rises and falls and rises and falls and rises and falls, minutes rolling by before Louis speaks again, his tone lighter now, with the hint of a giggle. “We should at least go under the covers, though. I’m quite chilly, to be honest.”

They move under the thick covers, and Harry takes advantage of it to gather Louis to his chest. They both seem to breathe a little smoother when Louis relaxes on him and presses a kiss under his collarbone.

“I’ll fall asleep if we stay like this, though,” Louis says, his voice unreadable, as he traces spirals and circles on Harry’s abs. “Slept like shit last night.”

“You can take a nap, I don’t mind.” Harry drags his nails across Louis’ back, something that always makes him pliant and drowsy, but Louis props himself up with an elbow on Harry’s thorax and gives him a resolute look.

“We are not taking a nap in Paris, Haz.” He drums his fingers up to Harry’s neck, a leg slipping between Harry’s. “Don’t you fancy a walk? We could eat _macarons_ , or take a _bateau-mouche_ , or visit the _Beaubourg_ ,” he says, adding flourish at every French word. “I know how much you like that modern art shite.”

“I do like it,” Harry concedes, hand cupping one of Louis’ arse cheeks. No need to hold back if they aren’t going to sleep. “Okay, let’s get out. Paris is well worth a shower, innit?”

Louis rolls off him with a groan and kicks him feebly out of bed. “Go, I’ll join you there. Just let me call Alberto.”

Harry wiggles his bum all the way to the bathroom, until Louis sends a pillow flying against him.

 

*

 

“When’s the last we’ve been here?” Louis asks, bumping their shoulders together. “June, July?”

They had gigs in Paris, that Harry remembers. He also remembers Louis had stayed an extra day with Eleanor. The actual timing of it is a blur, as tour often is. He isn’t even sure if some of the things he remembers happening in Paris truly happened there.

He bumps back into Louis with a smile, giving him a sideway glance. It’s cold, and they are all bundled up and basically unrecognisable. They’ve been strolling through the city for some time, in side streets mostly. Not that there’s much of a threat of being spotted here, with beanies and scarfs covering half their faces. It’s getting dark enough, though, for their slight paranoia to subside, and they are heading for the Jardin de Tuileries, one of Louis’ favourite places in the city.

“Must have been close to the Milan show, at the end of June”, Harry says wistfully. Then, when he sees the Orangerie appearing in front of them, he adds, “Did you bring Eleanor to see the Water Lilies?”

Louis drags the back of his hand against his. “No, I went alone. She said she doesn’t like Monet.”

“I didn’t think there were such things as people not liking Monet.”

“Or water lilies,” Louis chuckles. “Alberto, you did like them, didn’t you?”

“They were nice,” Alberto admits. He’s not a man of many words, but something in the way he looks at Louis, takes care of him, has Harry convinced that he’s not only agreeing because Louis is his boss.

“Oh don’t be shy, I saw you sneaking pictures of them.” Louis rises on his tiptoes to get more in Alberto’s face, who’s standing next to Louis, on the opposite side than Harry. It is technically safer if the bodyguard stands behind you, but it’s unnerving for Harry and Louis both, and Alberto had to concede that there weren’t many risks today, and three lads in a line were a lot less conspicuous.

Alberto gives an exasperated sigh and keeps walking, well aware that Louis’ mischievousness shouldn’t be encouraged in any way. “Those were for my daughter.”

Louis giggles and throws an arm around Alberto’s massive shoulders, and he looks so endearingly pocket-sized, like Alberto could scoop him up with a single hand. “Yeah, okay, just know that we flower-lovers will accept you no matter what.”

And shit, Harry called a diva someone who enjoys watching blurry paintings of flowers in pastel colours and tries to get his bodyguard to like them too. Harry is an insensitive prick and he should probably make it up to him. One of the Water Lilies was auctioned for what, 30 or 40 millions?

“Hey, want to stop somewhere?” Louis says directed to Harry once he and Alberto have finished with their adorable banter.

There aren’t many people in the gardens now that it’s getting late and windy, but there’s a small crowd gathered around a busker playing a guitar. He’s singing something slow and mellow in French, his voice raw but lovely. “We could – like, if that’s okay, we could listen for a bit?” Harry asks, more to Alberto than to Louis, gesturing there.

Alberto scans the premises with an uncertain frown, but after a while he nods and leads them to a bannister at the edge of the garden. They lean against it, Alberto a couple of feet distant from them, and they are close enough to hear properly, but they must look like black blobs to anyone watching in their direction. They soak the music in, Louis’ and Harry’s sides touching, swaying along with the melody.

“I know this song,” Louis whispers, and Harry has to lean his ear toward him to pick up what he’s saying. “It was written for people to dance to it. We should be dancing.”

 _We can’t_ , Harry almost spits, but it’d be stupid of him. Louis knows they can’t. Even if he looks like any regular Parisian in their twenties, and Harry looks like any hipster Parisian in their twenties, they can’t anyway. To be fair, they probably wouldn’t do it even if they were out. But if they were two uni students, both in Paris for an exchange, meeting over fallen books in the library, or because of mutual friends, or watching Monet’s Water Lilies?

“How would we dance?” Harry murmurs, mouth almost pressed to Louis’ cheek, so close he can feel his warmth. What a picture they must make, two millionaires freezing in a park and dreaming of a different life.

Louis wets his lips, his gaze stuck forward, and his words are like flowers opening in the sun. “I’d put my hands on your hips, keeping you close. To be honest, I’d just be waiting for an excuse to put them on your bum.”

“I’d let you,” Harry says with a cackle, eyes lost on the crinkles deepening around Louis’ eyes. “And I’d put my arms around your neck.”

Louis hesitates for some seconds, hopping on the bannister, legs open, a knee dabbing Harry’s coat. Harry slips a hand below his knee, where it bends. “We’d pretend to swing like teenagers at winter formal, chaste and proper, but we wouldn’t even last half the song. You’d bury your face into my neck and breathe me in, and my heart would beat faster with every intake. I’d give up, then, and clutch you with all I have, our bodies touching from head to toe, and I’d count every notch in your spine.” He circles Harry’s wrist with two fingers, their hands hidden in the dark. “We’d move from one foot to the other, in circles, until we lose sight of what’s me and what’s you. We’d follow the beat because we do it for a living, and maybe someone would applaud, or film us, or yell at us to get out of the way, but we wouldn’t care about anything else but our lips finally finding each other, and it’d be timeless, the kind of stuff people write symphonies for.”

He nudges Harry’s thigh with the tip of his shoe and turns to look at him, eyes gleaming in the dim light of the lampposts. “Then, when the song ends, we’ll leave fifty quid into the bloke’s guitar case and go get a cup of tea, although the French can’t even be trusted to boil the water.”

Harry throws his head back in laughter, a sort of euphoric giddiness bubbling up in his throat. As he takes the hand out from under Louis’ legs and intertwines their fingers, he feels like the luckiest person in all of Paris. “I heard they’re quite handy with hot chocolate, though.”

“I think those are the Austrians, love, but I’m not saying no to chocolate.” Louis jumps down the bannister with a hop, dropping Harry’s hand. “How much time do we have left?”

“Mh, Cal said to meet him at the station at half past eight.”

“We should get some dinner, then.” He takes a step toward Alberto, shooting him his brightest smile. “Alberto, how would you feel about letting dear Harold and me treat you to any French delicacy of your choice?”

As they start walking to the exit of the garden, Louis and Alberto immersed in a debate about the freshness of oysters in the Ville Lumière, Harry spares one last glance at the busker, who’s now playing a sugary tune in English, something Harry recognises vaguely, maybe from a movie.

It is, indeed, a perfect soundtrack.

 

_You're a part time lover and a full time friend_

_The monkey on your back is the latest trend_

_I don't see what anyone can see_

_In anyone else but you_

_I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of the train_

_I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side_

_I don't see what anyone can see…_

 

 

** 6th – … in anyone else but you **

 

It's quiet. Their house, that is. It’s not supposed to quiet.

If there is one thing he's learned while living with Louis, is that quiet is - not bad, necessarily, but unusual at least. A bit alarming. Like, not call-an-ambulance alarming.

Maybe the firemen, though? Just to be sure?

He hangs his coat in the foyer and takes his boots off. When he puts his keys down in the designated bowl, he makes sure to cause as much noise as possible. Louis is yet to acknowledge his presence.

Maybe he's taking a shower, or watching a movie in their home theatre. Maybe he's tried sliding down the banister of their stairs again and finally fallen and killed himself. Maybe he fucked off to fucking France again. The thought stings, but he pushes it down. If Louis needs space, hell, if he needs to be away from Harry for a bit, even in the same house, Harry will grant him as much.

"Louis?" he calls out, tentatively, and starts walking farther inside.

He doesn't get the answer he expects, but at least he hears Bruce's tiny pawns shuffling on the marble one moment before the dog collides with his legs, jumping around and barking happily.

"Hi sweetie," he coos, crouching down to scratch Bruce's fuzzy head. "Where is papa?"

In response, Bruce takes his thumb between his teeth. They are still working on his communication skills.

"Okay, then," he says and picks Bruce up. There's a flicker of light coming from the living room, which gives him hope that Louis is just absorbed in a muted game of FIFA and has indeed not been kidnapped by stalker fans, or decided Harry’s too much trouble for him.

He awaits to find Louis bundled up on the couch in front of their extravagant curved plasma screen -because apparently you'll be more immersed in the action if you can see everything like in a fishbowl -, but it's not what he finds. The only light source is the fireplace, which is alive and glimmering.

"Um?"

"Hazza, love!" Louis shrieks, jumping up from behind the couch. "Come here, babe," he says, and keeps talking while Harry navigates around the couch. "Did you get lost from the door to here? I get that having multiple houses can be confusing at times, you know, just millionaire problems, but should I be worried? Bruce, what do you reckon?"

"Shut up," Harry says around a fond smile. At Louis' feet, there's a carefully arranged assembly of pillows and blankets, and a tablecloth with cloches and bottles of wine on it. And tea. It wouldn't be Louis' without tea. Louis is also wearing that sweater Harry loves, the blue one that brings out the darker splinters in his eyes. "Did I forget an anniversary or something?"

"Nope, young Harold," Louis comes closer, takes Bruce from his arms and settles him down, then slips a hand into Harry's and tugs him till they are sitting down on the floor. "I'm afraid London doesn't offer much with regards to walks on the beach –"

_Walks on the beach?_

" – but here we are in front of the fire with a collection of poems by, wait-" he picks up a book and dramatically reads the name of the author, "Wisława Szymborska-" and he pronounces it all wrong, but _reading poetry_ and _sleeping in front of the fire_. Harry gets what Louis is doing, and the heat that travels like a sparkle on a trail of gasoline all over him is not from the flames. He can only squeeze Louis' hand tighter, because he's too busy smiling to say anything. Louis' mouth twitches and he thumbs at Harry's palm, but keeps going. "If you don't mind a not-so-literal interpretation, we could also work something out for horseback riding, if you feel up to it," he finishes with a grin.

Harry wants to recite every sappy poem Tyler Knott Greyson has ever written to this man, he wants to name stars after him and run every cliché in the book. He wants to kiss him and only stop if Louis gets tired of it, because Harry can't imagine a universe when he does. He wants to marry him, but what else is new? Instead, he takes hold of him and pushes him onto his lap and grins, "Sure, if we don't get food poisoning."

"Oh God," Louis groans, batting one of Harry's hands away, the one that's absent-mindedly tickling his side. "That was Niall's fault, honestly. He's the one who can't read expiration dates. I, on the other hand, am capable of handling a salmonella-free dinner, thank you very much."

"But?" Harry asks, because he can see in Louis' careful expression that there's a _but_ , and puts his palm where it was, reaching under Louis' sweater with the tip of his fingers. Louis' skin shivers under his touch, hot and silky and begging to be properly ravished. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe they should prepone the horseback riding, make it salmonella-proof.

"But I made Alfred cook it."

Harry chuckles, manoeuvring Louis till he's completely flushed against him. "Ah, knew it," he says.

"Who cares who cooked it, though? I guess that's, um, that's not that important," he continues, and the words come out half-smashed by his grin. It's weird, saying it out loud again. It's three words, and it's such an offhand comment, and yeah, the reaction to it has been orchestrated, and yet all the articles, the comments, the speculation –seeing his name in the press in the press and _wanting_ it to be there-, it gives him quite the headache. The most pleasant headache he’s felt in years, maybe.

He can see the golden glimmering in Louis' eyes under the light of the fire, his smirk vibrating in the shadows. He wishes there was a way to make it timeless, all of it, a poem or a picture or a song to make this moment last forever, but then Louis is inching his lips closer and every moment is a moment worth keeping, and while they kiss Harry thinks that no, he wouldn't want to be stuck in this bubble of happiness forever, because there's more happiness to be sought for them, new happiness, and this was but a promise of it.

“Wait,” he says when they separate, their faces still only a breath away. “I thought you didn’t want to watch the interview, though?”

Louis huffs and rolls his eyes, moving to retrieve two dishes and passing one to Harry. “My mum called me, made me watch it with her on the phone. You were very charming.” He distributes the cutlery and pours the Chardonnay, batting Harry’s hand away when he tries to help. “She said I had to step up my game, because now everyone, male or female, would want to be with, verbatim, _such a delight_. Apparently proposing wasn’t enough of a romantic gesture for her.”

“Wasn’t I the one to propose first?” Harry asks as he balances the plate of lobster Benedict on his thighs. Leave it to Louis to choose a breakfast dish for a romantic dinner.

“Oh, the lobster comes from, uh – some place or another, which basically I think was an excuse to charge it for twice its value, but whatever. And it should melt in your mouth, or so the fishmonger said.” He watches intently as Harry takes the first bite, a piece of lobster meat with some egg yolk and hollandaise sauce on it. It melts in his mouth all right. The husky moan Harry lets out must satisfy Louis, who continues, “Anyway, you didn’t have a ring that time. It doesn’t count if you don’t have a ring.”

“Excuse me? Of course it counts.”

Louis considers it while munching on his own lobster. “Then I was still the first. Remember _and I’d marry you, Harry?_ ”

Oh dear, the X Factor video diaries. So much blackmail material in so little footage. “ _Cause it rhymes_ ,” Harry rebuts, echoing eighteen-year-old Louis’ line. “Way to make a boy feel special.”

“Hey, considering the blowjob that followed, you felt plenty special,” Louis says, sticking his tongue out and licking some leftover sauce on his fork with definitely more strokes than necessary.

Harry retaliates by stealing half a lobster tail from his plate and eating it whole. Bloody Tommo the Tease.

From then on, they give up and feed each other till their plates are empty, and clean the occasional sauce spill on their chins with kisses. They drink half the bottle of wine, enough to get a pleasant buzz going, and share one of the salted caramel chocolate mousses Alfred has prepared. By the end of it, Louis tastes bittersweet and intoxicating, and Harry wants to get drunk on him forever.

“I’m sorry for saying those things the other day, Lou,” he mumbles on Louis’ lips, eyes still closed. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

Louis cradles Harry’s face in his hands and, when Harry opens his eyes, he’s staring at him with an expression so open and vulnerable, all of his defences down. “Are you kidding me? _I_ am sorry, for forgetting and for being such a shitty housemate in general.”

He is a bit of a shitty housemate, even with all the progress he’s made in the last years. He forgets to unload the dishwasher, he’s clueless with laundry, he doesn’t seem able to stick to his own half of the closet and he buys so much junk, so much useless, bulky junk. Harry may not give a damn. “I don’t give a damn.”

“And I’m sorry for running, and I’m sorry if I scared you,” Louis whispers, thumbs caressing Harry’s cheeks.

Harry nuzzles one of his hands. “Yeah, maybe a more detailed note would have been appreciated. But Lou, if you need to be on your own, you do it. You are not, like, trapped here. Just, um, let me know you’re okay?”

“Fuck, of course, of course I will.” Louis lunges forward and envelops Harry in his arms, clutching at his neck. “God, I’m a prick. And I don’t feel trapped, at all.” He leans back, drops his hands in his laps, his shoulders hunched. “To be honest, I didn’t need to be on my own. Apparently, no matter what you do and where you run off to, your thoughts won’t fucking leave you. I went to Paris because I thought, if I’m a diva, might as well act like it. And I always have a good time in Paris, I figured it would take my mind off everything. But when I was there I felt so lonely and awful, and all I wanted to do was see you.” He lets out a wet huff and covers his face with his palms, and Harry has to bite the inside of his cheek not to interrupt him. “I was so mopey. I went to Saint Laurent and bought you a coat.”

Even through the whirling hollow feeling twisting his guts, Harry can’t help the startled laugh that escapes him. “What? Seriously? Can I see it?”

Honestly, Harry is curious to see if Louis scouted something YSL hasn’t already given him for free. And isn’t it so endearing, Louis entering a fancy boutique and browsing clothes two sizes too big for him?

“Of course, it’s in our room,” Louis answers, and leads him there by his hand.

Once there, he retrieves a shopping bag from their closet and gives it to Harry, who delicately takes the box out and pries it open, revealing a thick beige sheepskin jacket, the heavier version of something Harry already owns. Harry tries it on, running his hands in the cottony lapels and generally basking in the warm, enveloping fabric.

“Do you like it?” Louis asks gingerly, coming to stand in front of him and adjusting the collar of Harry’s shirt on the coat.

“I love it. It will be perfect for New York next month.” Harry beams, his neck getting a bit flushed. He averts his eyes from Louis, trying to contain his fondness, and they land on their closet’s floor. Precisely, on the shopping bag casually chilling on it, pink with a black bow and familiar enough to send a thrill straight to Harry’s dick. “Is that…” he starts, voice half-choked.

“What?” Louis follows Harry’s gaze and, when he turns back around, he’s smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Oh, yeah. Saint Laurent may not be the only shop I visited.”

The bastard went to Agent Provocateur. He went to Agent Provocateur and waited more than 24 hours before showing his purchase to Harry. It’s outrageous, despicable and must be rectified immediately.

“What did you buy?” Harry mumbles more than asking, shrugging the coat off his shoulders and depositing it on a corner of the bed, suddenly too hot to keep it on.

Louis bats his eyelashes, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands clasped behind his back, and shrugs. “Just a trifle. May even give it to someone else, it’s nothing.”

Oh _God_. Does he want him to beg? Because Harry will… beg him without any hesitation whatsoever, but still. Rude.

“Don’t you _dare_.”

“I mean, it’s not even your colour,” Louis continues casually, strutting toward the packet. “You don’t look too interested, maybe others would appreciate it more. Liam, perhaps.”

Buggering hell. That’s a low blow, a very low blow. “Lou- _is_ ,” Harry whines, and hopes Louis will take pity on him and end this… _hornyfying torture_. Harry’s cock has a weird soft – or, technically, not so _soft_ – spot for being denied things, which is annoying, and is making this conversation much harde- _more difficult_ than it would be if Harry’s brain was receiving adequate blood supply.

Finally, _finally_ Louis picks up the bag. “You want it, then?” he grins, letting it swing like a pendulum, some hundred quid worth of lingerie dangling from his finger.

Harry nods, because his vocal cords seem stuck together, which is probably why he’s starting to feel a little light-headed. It only worsens when Louis lets it fall on the bed, rubs his hands together and orders, without any hint of mocking, “Take your kit off.”

Harry shimmies out of his clothes as if they’re on fire, and they might as well be. He only hesitates when he gets to his boxers, unsure if Louis wants to take them off himself, but pushes them down as soon as he sees Louis’ pointed look and eyebrow raise, and kicks them away, trying to ignore the heady sensation of the air hitting his free cock.

“Good lad,” Louis praises, and Harry preens at the approval in his voice. Regardless of what’s in that box, this is going to be so, so, so good. “Okay, stay put,” he says, as if Harry had anywhere else to go.

Louis reaches for the bag and Harry can’t see what he’s doing from where he’s standing, his view blocked by Louis’ back. “Sit on the bed,” Louis instructs as he rummages through the gift, and Harry complies, his movements only slightly slackened.

When he has everything laid out, carefully hidden behind the bag and box, Louis clears his throat and walks up to Harry with a pair of sheer nude stay-up. Stay-up. What Louis has in mind involves fucking _stay-up_. Harry feels some drops of pre-come leaking from the tip of his cock and rolling down the shaft, and he has to grip the edges of the duvet not to come immediately when Louis falls to his knees in front of him and licks it off with a single stroke of his tongue.

“Don’t want you to get messy,” Louis says as he wets his lips and winks. “Not yet, at least.”

Harry lets out a wail through gritted teeth, his legs twitching with toe-curling arousal, nothing but static in his mind.

Louis gently raises one of Harry’s feet, settling it on his tight. “So, the youtube tutorial I watched said that the stockings should be put on afterwards,” he explains, fondling Harry’s shaking ankle with two fingertips, and dear God. He watched a youtube tutorial. And, shit, _put on afterwards_. After what? Louis halts his caress abruptly, though, raising his gaze to Harry’s face. “Wait, do you actually want them? It can get a bit hot in them.”

Oh dear. That’s, like, adorable and shit, but can Louis please get a move on? “Mh-mh, yeah, please,” is all Harry manages, low and rambling, and Louis shoots him a half-convinced look.

“Okay, but you take them off if it gets uncomfy, alright?” He circles Harry’s ankle with his whole hand and squeezes.

With Louis’ touch steadying him, Harry takes a deep breath and concentrates long enough to spell out a confident, “Alright, of course.”

 “Perfect.” Louis leans down and drops a kiss atop Harry’s foot, and a little voice at the back of Harry’s head thanks whatever made him decide to shower at the gym and not wait to get home like he sometimes does. Then, Louis starts rolling the stocking onto his legs, and his mind abandons any thought of smelly feet.

Louis’ hands are gentle and meticulous as they slide the thin fabric past Harry’s heel, his calf, his knee, smoothing its border on Harry’s thigh with reverent pats of dainty fingers.

Harry follows his every movement as Louis does the same with the other leg, with the same unhurried care, Harry’s head floating on a cloud of tenderness. That is, until Louis drags all the nails of his left hand on Harry’s inner thigh, making him arch his back and roll his eyes back. The light colour of the stockings melts flawlessly with his own milky skin, and Louis is so close, so damn _close_ to him, and yet it’s clear he has no intention of putting that gorgeous mouth on him anytime soon, and Harry’s heart is everywhere, racing and rabbiting and beating loudly in every corner of Harry’s body, from his temples to his toes.

It’s a lot, and not nearly enough.

“Can you stand up for me, love?”  Louis asks as he stands up himself, walking back to retrieve the rest of Harry’s gift.

Harry gets to his feet on jelly legs, and each muscle in his body feels contracted, tightening not to fall apart. He’s starkers in the middle of the room but for a pair of stay-up, cock almost painfully hard and anticipation making him sweaty and fidgety, while Louis hasn’t even taken off his sweatshirt. He’d laugh, if he didn’t feel choked.

“Fancy seeing it before?” Louis glances at him behind his shoulder, a mischievous foxy grin on his mouth. “Or should I just make you wear it?”

“Make me,” Harry blurts embarrassingly fast, without even processing the words. He swallows, bites his lips. _Make me do whatever you want_ , is all his brain supplies, and Louis would be oh so smug if he said it, but he has still enough presence of mind not to do it. “Make me wear it,” he manages to repeat through the tangle of rouge, uncoordinated sparks that are his thoughts. Like confettis being shot at the end of a show, and when you try to catch one tens of others land on you and.

Fuck, he really shouldn’t be thinking about things shooting. With some effort, he could probably come by seeing a glimpse of Louis’ ankles at this point.

“Turn around,” Louis instructs, and the almost sardonic tilt of his voice makes Harry harder and hotter, chills racing up and down his arms and coiling in his chest and lower belly, and he has to clench his fists as he does what Louis said.

Somewhere in the haze of his mind, he contemplates putting on a cheeky grin and say, “What if I don’t?”, and wonders whether Louis would shrug, or bat his eyelashes at Harry and make him beg for the next couple of hours. He wouldn’t mind either.

He hears Louis walk up to him, feels him breathing on the nape of his neck, and almost bends forward when Louis drags a finger along the curve of his spine. Louis’ fingers are ice cold when he spreads his hand on Harry’s side, grasping the tender flesh he can’t get rid of, no matter how many hours he spends in the gym.

Louis’ other arm circles his waist, and something soft and tickling skims over his stomach. “Eyes forward,” Louis murmurs into his ear, calm but firm, and Harry gulps as he fights the urge to look down.

Louis places what can only be a suspender on Harry’s hips, using both hands to slide its edges on Harry’s skin until he can fasten it on Harry’s back, the fabric jingling with every movement. Jingling. Louis got him a jin _gling suspender_ , which he’s now gently caressing, running his hands over their whole length as he drops kisses on his shoulders.

Finally, he rests a hand on his front, and he opens it wide, the thumb brushing against his belly button and his pinky – _God_ , his pinky traces a line in his pubic hair and brushes the base of Harry’s cock and makes him jolt and arch and tremble, a low moan escaping his lips as his eyes widen.

“Easy, there,” Louis teases, patting Harry’s tummy before retrieving the hand altogether and fucking kneeling on the floor behind him.

Harry feels Louis’ mouth pressing behind his knee, the sensation dulled by the stay-up, and higher, and higher, until the fabric ends and it collides with Harry’s bare skin on the meaty part of his thigh. Suddenly there are teeth on him, biting with enough force to send bolts of pure energy up to the tip of Harry’s fingers. They are going to leave a mark, despite Louis’ now soothing the bruised flesh with his tongue, a mark that will last for _days_. Fuck, is it not time for Harry to beg yet?

Louis gives gentler nibbles to the rest of his thigh and up to his arse, his hands coming up to squeeze it as Louis’ breath moves closer and closer to the centre. He pries his cheeks apart with one thumb on each side and blows on his hole, and Harry has to put a hand back on Louis’ shoulder not to collapse on the floor.

Louis leans back completely, then, leaving Harry dazed by the sudden lack of contact. He makes quick work of closing the clasps on the border of each stay-up, without emitting a single sound, anything, and Harry tries to catch his breath but it’s impossible with the clatter his racing heart is making in the deafening silence of the room.

Louis’ knuckles stroke the hand on his shoulder as he speaks again. “Let’s do the front now.”

Harry releases his grip on him and waits, staying motionless until he realises that Louis has no intention of leaving his spot. He turns around as the suspender tinkles, and fuck, he hasn’t even seen it yet. He plants his feet on the ground in front of Louis, and Louis is just… _there_ , looking up at him through his eyelashes, eyes hooded and burning, like matches that are waiting for Harry to catch fire as well.

“You okay, love?” Louis asks as he takes a hold of his hips, steadying him, thumbs moving along his v-lines.

Harry swallows and nods, and tries to ignore the huge mirror hanging on the wall behind Louis.

With a grin, Louis drops his gaze to Harry’s middle and inhales sharply. “It looks even better than I imagined,” he says, awed, and reverently brushes his lips just below the suspender, tracing its edges on one side and absolutely neglecting the cock right in front of his face. “You can watch yourself, dear,” he murmurs as he goes lower with his kisses, down till the crease between his pelvis and thigh, and that’s when Harry snaps his head up.

His reflections seems wobbly and barely keeping it together, but God, do they look gorgeous. The suspender is a work of art, an intricate pattern of golden lace no more than an inch long in the middle, widening into two triangles at the sides. Two fringes of bronze beads define the outer rims of the triangles and two cream-coloured straps are attached to their lowest angles, straps that Louis fastens to the stay-ups blindly, his head still buried in Harry’s skin, tongue licking stripes on his inner thigh.

It takes Louis five tries to fasten the left strap, and as he tries to focus on both the clasp and Harry’s poor nerve endings, he loses track for a second and brushes his hair and his cheek against Harry’s rock hard cock. It requires a lot of willpower and fist clenching from Harry not to come from that alone.

“Think you could come just by staring at yourself in the mirror, baby?” Louis asks, peering up at him, and he’s smirking the _I’m not even joking_ smirk.

And _God, yes, okay,_ Harry thinks as Louis gets to his feet and walks around him, stopping behind him, close enough for Harry to feel his warm breath on one of his shoulders but not actually touching. Their eyes lock in the mirror, and, “Aren’t you beautiful,” Louis whispers, and his voice is not quite a hand on Harry’s cock, but it’s well close. “I knew as soon as I saw it that it was going to look bloody gorgeous on your ferns. And the tassels, mh. Think of how it would be to fuck me while you wear those.” Harry feels shots of pure want ricochet around his belly, pooling low, and shit shit shit this might work this might really –

“The tassels dangling against my arse as you pound into me from behind, twice as hard when I rock my hips back into you, the lace rubbing against my back.” Fuck, the sounds they would make would be amazing, a restless rhythm, deep and fast, just like Louis likes it. He’s close, he’s so close, he’s going to come with nothing touching him. “Or me bouncing on your cock, jostling the suspender every time I sink down, and coming on it when I’m done, messing up all the pretty fabric. What would you do, then?”

Oh God, what would Harry do? Die, he’d die, he’s going to die and ascend to the heavens right fucking now.

But Louis doesn’t stop, just matter-of-factly continues to drive Harry mad. “Would you make me lick it clean right there, hands behind my back, only my mouth and tongue to fix my own mess?”

Finally – finally finally finally _finally_ -, Louis lays a fingertip on Harry’s abdomen, right below the centre of the garter belt, and starts moving it up and down in swift strokes, as if he was truly swiping something off it. Harry feels his orgasm mounting and mounting, like a flame on a fuse, not enough to get there but sufficient for his mouth to fall open and release a string of _Lou please please please Lou please_.

“Or would you take it off and do it yourself, stuffing your mouth with it because not even an ounce of my come should go to waste?” Louis says, and mercifully puts a hand on Harry’s cock, and it only takes two tugs for Harry to come all over Louis’ fist. The orgasm hits him like shrapnel, shards of burning pleasure searing through his veins, the pure force of it almost knocking him backwards. Louis holds him with both arms around his waist, Harry’s back plastered to his chest, his head rolling back on Louis’ shoulder.

He needs a moment, a breather, to stop the explosion of lights and colours behind his eyelids, but from somewhere very far away he hears Louis say, “Face down on the bed,” and when he feels a hand on his bum pushing him toward it, he takes a couple of stumbling steps as his senses readjust to reality. Louis is right there, murmuring reassurances into his neck as Harry lands on the bed with Louis behind him.

As he lies breathless, he feels the mattress shift and Louis kneel beside him. Harry’s body is clay in Louis’ hands, as he prods his hips upwards and slips a pillow beneath them, brushing it against Harry’s dick, not hard but not quite limp yet. He’s so sensitive, God, the cotton enough to send chills all over his legs, making them writhe and widen.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Louis says into his shoulder blades as he presses a wet finger against his hole. He smears lube on Harry’s rim, drawing spirals around it, while he traces Harry’s spine with his lips.

Louis enters him with the tip, then half finger, then pushing as deep as he can, Harry letting out small grunts at every thrust. It’s a bit tender still, and Louis must feel how he tenses up, because he squirts more lube right onto Harry’s skin. When he slides into him next, there’s no more pain, only stretch that blends with pleasure as Louis remains there, roaming around and casually brushing near Harry’s spot.

Louis adds a second finger with the same care, slow at first but rocking into him as Harry starts pushing back, the suspender clinking deliciously in time with their rhythm, almost drowning the gasps that escape Harry’s mouth – the gasps they both know he does when he’s getting hard again, his fattening cock being driven against the pillow after every thrust of his hips.

Suddenly Louis stops his motions, halts himself with his fingers still buried into Harry, completely breaking the pace. Harry whines, low in his throat, and even lower when Louis lifts one of the straps and snaps it against Harry’s arse cheek. There’s nothing afterwards, absolute stillness as Harry squirms on the bed, face pressed harder into the pillow.

And then he feels it, something humid and velvety and determined on his hole, a thumb pulling his cheeks apart, and suddenly there are not only fingers inside him.

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry moans with what little breath he has left, as Louis scissors his fingers and licks along them. Harry digs his nails in the sheets and closes his eyes shut, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

Louis takes his tongue out, then, and strokes it along Harry’s rim, his crack, the soft skin near his balls, so close he seems to be contemplating taking them in his mouth. He doesn’t, though, instead painting long lines on the swell of Harry’s arse as he resumes fucking Harry with his fingers, rougher than before. He finally curls them against his walls, skirting around his spot without really nailing it, and Harry trashes around, rocks his hips, does everything he can to bring them where he wants. It takes him some attempts to realise that Louis is toying with him.

Harry almost sobs when Louis presses both fingers against his prostate, and really earnestly sobs when he drags them higher and higher and bloody pulls them out, leaving him empty and desperate and clenching against nothing.

Louis crawls up his back, straddling his middle. The zipper of his trousers tickles Harry’s skin as he bends down, moves Harry’s hair away from his neck and kisses him below his ear. “What do you want now?” he asks, nuzzling his nose into Harry’s neck and keeping him still with his weight when Harry tries to arch his back, gets some friction on his neglected cock, leaking between the pillow and his tummy.

What does Harry want? His mind is a hazy place, but there was a purpose to this, he remembers. God, what was it? What could have been a better idea than Louis bringing him off with his mouth and fingers?

Well, easy, Louis bringing him off with his – ah.

“Horseback riding, you promised me,” Harry mumbles, tilting his head to the side as much as possible, until Louis gets with the program and slides his tongue into Harry’s mouth. Louis kisses him lazily, languidly, as if there weren’t more… throbbing matters. Like the stiff and full and clothed one poking Harry’s back.

“Are you sure you want to ride me, love?” Louis asks, sliding a hand into Harry’s hair. Harry doesn’t even mind that it could be covered in lube, or in his own come. “I could just eat you out, maybe blow you for a while. I don’t mind doing all the work,” he finishes, and Harry can hear the cheeky smile in his voice.

 _God, what a bossy tease_. Harry gathers the little strength he has left and rises to his hand and knees, making Louis fall on his side with a squeaky, “Ouch!”. Before Louis can recover, Harry pushes him down on his back by his shoulders and throws a leg across his hips, suspender jingling gloriously and cock bouncing as he does it.

He locks eyes with Louis, who’s watching him with wet, slightly parted lips, his arms thrown over his head.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry mutters, thinking out loud, tracing Louis’ thin bottom lip first with his thumb and then, leaning down, with his tongue. “’m gonna ride you now, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before kissing him, his hands grasping the hem of Louis’ sweater and pulling it up. They separate only to slide it over Louis’ head and arms and, when it’s off, Harry gently tosses it over the YSL coat. He deals with the trousers next, unbuttoning and unzipping them, and enjoying the way Louis trembles and lifts his hips as he slides them down together with Louis’ boxers, his own body moving down with them till he’s kneeling at the edge of the bed. They end up the same way as the sweater, and so do Louis’ socks, and then Louis is naked and panting in front of him, propped up on his elbows, his swollen cock resting on his belly.

“Come here, you,” Louis exhales, and Harry almost does, powerless to Louis’ husky voice, but what would be the fun in that?

Instead, he swings his hips right and left, marvelling at how Louis’ eyes follow the beads of the suspender as if they were pendulums, and prances toward the bottle of lube Louis left on the nightstand. Once he’s taken it, he crawls back on the bed. The stockings make an enchanting swish when his legs brush and Louis, for once, seems not to know where to look.

Harry coats one of his hands with lube and gives Louis a couple of sharp tugs, staring intently at his face. Louis falls back on the bed, writhing and arching his neck, his lids blinking furiously fast. He’s absolutely stunning, with his fringe sticking to his glistening forehead and his breaths coming out in frantic hisses.

Harry can’t wait to have him inside. He drops a kiss on Louis’ brow and focuses on his cock, lubing it up properly and wiping the precome gathered on the tip with his thumb.

“If you don’t want the show to end, ah – prematurely,” Louis whimpers, “I suggest you stop doing that.”

Harry contemplates throwing back a _‘Doing what?’_ and giving him a good suck, but he’s getting quite impatient himself. He settles back on Louis’ hips and rubs his arse on Louis’ cock, and grasps Louis’ shoulder. “Hold me, please?” he asks, and there’s only a small lag before Louis is nodding and using his abs to sit up, hugging Harry’s waist as Harry does the same with Louis’ neck.

“Hi,” Louis mumbles, his fingers playing with the clasp of the suspender.

“Hi yourself,” Harry giggles. It’s honestly embarrassing. Louis has his hard dick pressed against Harry’s arse and they are too busy grinning at each other like loons, motionless, to do anything about it. It’s disgraceful, and also lovely and wonderful and Harry wouldn’t want it any other way.

Okay. Enough foreplay. Harry lifts up his hips, moving them blindly and searching for Louis, and Louis promptly guides his cock to Harry’s rim, barely nudging it.

Harry starts pushing down on it, his hole pliant against Louis’ tip, and the stretch is so mind-numbing and overwhelming that he almost misses Louis’, “Are you sure you’re prepped enough?”

“Mh-mh,” Harry hums, taking half an inch more into him, then adds, smirking, “You’re not that big anyway.”

Which is a big fat lie, same as Louis’ big fat - _oh_

“Not that big, uh?” Louis jolts his hips upwards a tiny bit, just enough to make him groan loudly and shut the hell up about Louis’ dimensions, and everything else as well.

He concentrates on sinking down, hiding his face in the crook of Louis’ neck and biting on his own arm with every movement of his thighs, as he gets fuller and fuller and fuller.

“Easy, love,” Louis whispers whenever Harry tries to take him too quickly, his voice growing more and more affected, until it’s but an incoherent ramble when Harry finally sits down on him, thighs burning and cock pulsating and head swimming in a pool of nothingness, floating, with no gravity to keep it from flying away.

From then on, it’s a feverish dance of synchronised back-and-forths, Harry riding Louis with every spark of energy he has and Louis rocking back into him with the same relentless fervour, their grunts and wails becoming the bass to the suspender’s delicate treble.

“Want to come on my cock?” Louis asks as his thrusts get more erratic, but deeper, rougher, meaning he’s close. “Or on my hand?”

Louis slides a hand between their abdomens, where Harry’s cock is trapped in the terrible, maddening heat, but Harry bats it away and shakes his head. “No, no. I can do it. Your cock.”

He has to angle Louis’ cock better, sink down harder, but he manages to find the perfect position, the perfect rhythm, the perfect everything for Louis to nail his spot every time they meet. He starts chasing his orgasm, not only moving because it’s really bloody awesome but because he’s almost there, almost, almost, almost. When Louis comes, still buried into him, and falls backwards, boneless, bringing Harry with him, it’s too much, Louis’ hot come and Louis’s screams and the straps pulling on his arse cheeks and his legs and the friction of Louis’ chest against his cock – it’s too much, and his orgasm floods each of his nerve endings, any corner of his body and brain, leaving him a babbling mess sprawled on Louis’ heaving frame.

“Oh God,” Harry stutters, rolling onto his back and feeling as if his lungs are about to pop like cheap balloons.

He has no clue how long he stays there. If he could even move. He vaguely registers Louis kissing his cheek and standing up, maybe the sound of rummaging in the bathroom. Louis cleaning him off, reaching under him to unhook the garter belt, and taking it off together with the stockings. The world is disturbingly quiet and cold when Louis is done.

“Under the covers, babe?” Louis suggests, planting kisses on Harry’s face, and helping him after he nods a timid yes.

Once they’re both safely engulfed in the soft sheets, Harry’s lying on his side, Louis wraps himself against his back and cuddles him, brushing his hands on Harry’s torso, his side, his arms.

“Okay?” Louis asks after a while, low, and Harry smiles at his concern.

“Never better, Boo,” he replies, wiggling back into Louis’ crotch just to hear the tiny breathy whine Louis inevitably lets out.

He falls asleep minutes later, utterly content, with Louis’ lips pressed on his neck and his fingers caressing his rose.

 

 

** 7th – Apples **

**  
**

Turns out Louis wasn’t joking about the t-shirt.

 

 

** 8th – Colorblind, three way tragedy **

 

It's a screaming match.

Or, well. Louis screams, can’t help being as obnoxious as possible, determined to take all their eardrums down with him.

Harry doesn’t scream.

It always works like that –the louder Louis gets, bitter and cutting and circled in barbed wire, the more Harry settles in his monotonous drawl, fights the harshness that is thrown at him with nothing but phony sensibility and calm. It only enrages Louis more, Harry knows.

It’s just. It’s a stupid program, this, an Austrian whatever-or-other thing, quiet ridiculous from what Harry could gather, and none of them care that much about performing a smashing Steal My Girl.

(except they do, because they are stage-addicts and wouldn’t risk losing this for –not anything, maybe, but close enough. How easier would things be if it weren’t like that.)

But it’s work, and it’s promo – the good kind, the kind they like, actually enjoy most times, despite the fact that human beings aren’t wired to breathe pressurized air as much as they do, and he can’t remember the last time he woke up and thought, honestly, _I don’t know what’s going to happen to me in six months_ , because his schedule doesn’t fit enough free time for anything in his life to change.

And that’s the thing, right. He and Louis. They’re about to have the same argument they always have, and isn’t it just bizarre? Isn’t it all a stupid game of _I love you more, no I love you most_?

“I’m sorry we can’t all be like you, Harry, just swallow down and fucking meditate or do yoga or wait, what’s this month’s new thing? And wait for someone to make things better for us,” Louis spits, pacing in lines in front of where Harry’s sitting, unable to stay still.

Zayn, sprawled on the couch near him, lets out a throaty hum, but refrains from saying anything. He wants to side with Louis, probably regardless of whether Louis is right or not, but Harry appreciates him staying out of it. It’s the most fucked up thing, that. It affects everyone, tremendously, but it’s ultimately only about Harry and Louis. It’s okay for them to argue in front of the lads, it would almost feel weird to do it in an adjacent room when they are right here, but there’s still a boundary between them.

Harry is almost grateful for it. It’s a torture to hold his own against Louis. It’d be hell to have them all four against him. And yeah, maybe Liam would pretend to be neutral, try to make them reason and calm them down, but his loyalty is with Louis. And like, Harry can’t blame him. Harry’s loyalty is with Louis too.

Just, sometimes Louis is a proper dick. A dick that likes to make things harder on himself.

“What, Lou? Am I supposed to apologise because I think about things instead of jumping at people’s throats right away?”

Louis stops right in front of him, his eyes shiny and warm with anger. “Oh my God, as if it would have changed anything. How fucking naïve can you be? They know me, I know them. We’ve been playing this game way before you even realised you were in it too, to be honest.”

Harry digs his fingers into his palm so he doesn’t end up crying like a bloody child, and wishes he had longer nails. It’s unfair, though, bringing up how stupid and young Harry had been when they started, how it had been Louis to shoulder the bulk of the bullshit at the beginning.

(how maybe that had never fully changed)

Louis breathes, a hand clenching and unclenching over nothing, his eyelashes fluttering. Then, he continues, his voice lower, purposefully so.

“Haz, listen. I know this week felt like a finish line for you, like achieving something. I know to you it’s like, I don’t know, the last five minutes of a football match, when the result is already decided and you just have to play decently and let the time pass.” He fidgets with the seam of his t-shirt, still in the same clothes he had on the plane, and scratches the skin there, like he always does when he’s being watched and would very much like to disappear.

“But me, I’m not even at half time,” he says, rough like a disturbed line. “And mine’s not really the winning team at the mo, is it.”

Which, untrue. Harry flares his nostrils and his jaw works, and, like. Louis isn’t one to look for pity, nor he would admit defeat in front of anything. And he never, ever wants to discuss how things are different between the two of them. Thankfully, they’ve never been trapped in a _I have it worst_ argument, and they’re not going to start now.

The thing is. Louis is being honest, and not his usual brand of Harry-censored sugarcoated honesty. Just exactly the way he feels, which is usually relegated to hushed pillow-talk, Louis whispering in Harry’s hair, so quiet and ephemeral that the words entwine with their dreams and in the morning Harry can’t tell if he heard them or made them up.

This, with the boys, is something new. Something good, even. That doesn’t mean Harry knows how to answer.

“But we’re on the same team, Lou,” Harry says, and he was aiming for pleading, but it just comes out dry and petulant.

And if Harry doesn’t let go, Louis won’t either. He will only get more vicious, jumpy and defensive, like Harry could ever intentionally hurt him (and unintentional doesn’t count, right? _Right?_ ).

He rolls his eyes, hands on his hips, and says, “We hardly even play the same sport, love.”

“Then what have I been doing for the past year? You know we didn’t actually buy a house in LA just because I like the weather, right?” Harry pauses, strokes his eyes with a hand. “I know this is ridiculous. I also know that they wanted to change interviewer from Scott to Ben before they called you, and would have done the same regardless of what you told them. And I would never, for any reason, tell you not to do defend yourself, or not do something in fear of retaliation. We’ve been scared long enough.”

Louis is still in front of him, his arms crossed tightly, and he looks like he would topple down if Harry were to so much as blow in his direction.  He stays silent, and Harry hates how much he loves him in that moment, like every other time Louis suffocates his natural urge to talk over everyone else and leaves Harry time to collect his thoughts, to say things in his slow, unorganized way, like waiting for honey to drip down a spoon.

“And I get that you’re angry, like, fucking furious, and you can be furious with me, um, with all of us,” Harry continues, and scans the room to see three faces nodding at him. Niall solemn, with his jaw clenched. Zayn absent-mindedly, like he’s not bothered, like his leg isn’t twitching in anticipation. Liam hurried, because he would never interrupt them but they need to hurry the fuck up, there’s just so much time their team can buy them. “But like, why give them the satisfaction? This time next year, they won’t matter anymore. It’s going to happen, it’s already happening. There are people on your bench, Lou,” he says, and they should really drop the elaborate football metaphor, “You know, on our side.”

“They are not on our side, Harry, fuck. Stop trusting people and only seeing good in everyone, no matter how much people shit on you,” Louis says with gritted teeth and glistening eyes. “No one is on anyone else’s side. You are not on my side. I’m not on yours. We just happen to want the same thing.”

He’s mad and his pitch is everywhere, squeaky and unpolished around his indignation, and he’s such a big contradiction, Louis, always has been. He negates what he’s saying as he’s saying it, because if there’s one thing Harry’s sure, one thing Harry would literally bet his life on, is that Louis is on his side more than he himself is.

Or, honestly, he wouldn’t be yelling at him for being too trusting. He would be yelling at him that it’s his fucking fault.

Because it is Harry’s fault. It’s what Harry’s done that they want to punish, not Louis or his bloody fashion choices. Louis is just a casualty caught in the media frenzy that Harry caused, and still it’s him they threaten. And all Harry can do is tell him to let it go and not fight back.

“Tommo, c’mon, don’t be a twat,” Niall intercepts, and Harry has to hold his tongue not to tell him that Louis can be as much of a twat as he wants, at least about this.

Louis lets out a loud annoyed whine, but still, he doesn’t launch into a strop nor bites poor Niall’s head off, so that’s something. Liam and Zayn must think the same, because they mumble one over the other about progresses being made, being all in this together and other sentiments of the High School Musical-inspired variety. Louis just sighs loudly and fastidiously rubs his eyes and, when he takes his hands off, he seems almost surprised that they’re all still there, staring at him.

He opens his mouth, but whatever he was about to say is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Guys, are you in there?” asks a voice Harry doesn’t recognise. A random handler, then. “You still need to get dressed and everything, we’re already running late as it is,” she says, frustrated but trying not to sound scolding. She’s not succeeding. She probably thinks they’re being unnecessarily difficult.

“Coming,” Liam shouts back, and stands up. “Okay, we go ahead. You,” he orders, staring pointedly first at Louis and then at Harry, “you two sort this out.”

He walks to the door, followed by Niall. Zayn plants a weak punch to Harry’s arm, then joins them there. With his hand already on the handle, Liam turns to face them. “Lads,” he says, his serious tone betrayed by his half smile, “please, do not lose your trousers.”

Harry lets out a breathy, nervous cackle as they leave the room, and then, like that, he and Louis are alone.

“Haz,” Louis starts, quiet, like he’s about to apologise, and Harry doesn’t want that. He wants many things, he wants Louis to be more level headed, less impulsive, less self-destructive, and to stop shouldering everything alone. He definitely doesn’t want him to say sorry just to make Harry and the lads feel better, and go back into his toxic lonely hero persona.

So Harry halts him, sits up straighter on the couch and reaches an arm out. “Come here,” he says, then, softer, “Lou, come on.”

Louis snorts, because he is a bit of a twat, but takes Harry’s hand in his anyway. He comes closer, lets Harry drag him till he’s standing between his open legs, Harry’s palms moving to hook behind his thighs.

“We can still stop the story from being picked up, you know?” Harry whispers carefully, looking up at Louis, who’s settled his fingers into Harry’s hair and is gently caressing his scalp.

He laughs, humourlessly, pulling on a strand till Harry’s head tilts back. “Are you kidding me? This time tomorrow there may be tens of headlines about me supporting you and LGBT folks, and you want me to chicken out now?”

“I’m just saying,” Harry answers, and he should get an award for how firm he’s keeping his voice, given how Louis is thumbing at that lovely spot behind his ear. He digs his nails further into the soft fabric of Louis’ sweats and, somehow, that doesn’t make him feel any steadier. “What I’m saying is, no one would judge you if you do.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want that. It’s just exhausting, is what it is. Tomorrow was supposed to be a fun thing for the fans, and now it’ll be the fucking Winstonian inquisition.”

“You know it’s not his fault.”

“Oh don’t you dare defend Ben now.” Louis rolls his eyes, his hands settling on Harry’s shoulders. “Bloody hell, that’s what makes me mad, Harry. This isn’t one of those situations in which it’s nobody’s fault. We have names and surnames of whose fault it is, and some are the same ones that helped plant ‘not that important’ everywhere,” he sighs, and resumes twirling Harry’s locks on his index finger. “I love that you’d rather shut up if you’ve nothing nice to say. I love that you can judge situations as they are, without holding a grudge or letting the past affect you. I know-”

He stops, and clears his throat, like what he’s about to say won’t physically come out. Harry holds his breath. “I know you want to protect me. I know you try, and your main obstacle most of the times is, well, me.”

Harry pushes him closer, till the tips of Louis’ shoes are touching the edge of the mattress and the only way forward is into his arms. He watches the way Louis wets his lips without even noticing, his face open and tentative, vulnerable, such a stark contrast from how venomous, defensive he was five minutes ago. He watches him as he bends down and brushes their lips together, just so, feathery delicate.

He has to close his eyes, though, when Louis yanks on his hair and deepens the kiss, and really, after four years, Harry should not gasp like that. Louis makes it thorough but quick, straightening back up and leaving Harry whining and hungry.

“I’m sorry for calling Magee an idiotic twassock with the business savviness of my ball sack,” Louis says around a dry chuckle.

 _I’m sorry for him reminding you that he owns that ball sack_ , Harry thinks but doesn’t say. “I’m sorry for staying silent and leaving you and Liam to deal with them,” he pushes out, instead, beyond the lump in his throat.

“Oh no, love.” Louis sneaks a hand under his chin and raises it, their gazes locking. “That’s fine, that’s okay. Arguing is really not your forte anyway,” he finishes with a wink, his fingers stroking Harry’s jaw.

“Dickhead.” Harry tries to hide his smile into Louis’ covered belly, but it must still be showing in his eyes by the way Louis is looking down at him, and caressing him ever so gently.

“Didn’t you say you wouldn’t go out with a dickhead just the other day?”

“How presumptuous.” Harry uses a hand to raise the edge of Louis’ t-shirt and expose a strip of golden skin. He licks it, just a soft brush of his tongue, and bites a bit of flesh when he feels Louis trembling under his lips. His muscles are so tense now, reacting to the tiniest stimulus, but, as mouth-watering as it is, Harry misses the Tommo tummy quite a lot.

Over him, Louis’ hands have moved to the nape of Harry’s neck, and his eyes are glazed with something different from before. “Harry,” he exhales, unsteady.

“Can I?” Harry asks, slipping two fingers into the waistband of Louis’ trousers, like he’s unaware of the tenting situation _arising_ just below.

“Babe,” Louis says, voice broken but laced with mockery, even in such a predicament. “I don’t think I’ll ever be mad enough to refuse a blowjob.”

Well, then. Harry lowers the waistband of Louis’ loose sweats and lets them fall at their feet, then unceremoniously noses at the fabric of his boxers. It’s thin enough for Harry to pick up Louis’ inebriating, salty scent, and he mouths at the hardening flesh behind it without a real pattern, only focusing more at the tip, licking at where the slit must be. Fuck, he could make Louis come like this, have him waddling around backstage with sticky pants and trying to find an excuse for why he needs fresh underwear. Not that Caroline wouldn’t know the truth.

He gives little sucks to the tip, follows his slight movements as Louis’ cock grows, and lets out a gruff growl when he feels some pre-come coating his lips. He leans back just enough to say, “Leaking already?”

“They are – mh,” Louis tightens the hold on the nape of his neck, his arms visibly straining not to push Harry into his cock already. “They are going to call us soon. Please, would you. Would you please hurry, love?”

Politeness will get you anywhere with Harry. He slides Louis’ boxers under his balls and takes the cock into one hand, bringing it near his open mouth but not touching it further, only hovering and breathing on it, and he feels it fatten up more, almost to the brim. He could still work him up, make him harder, but they don’t have the time. He grips the base more firmly and starts lapping at the crown with fast licks, the flavour flooding his mouth and brain and making him moan. His thumb goes to caress the underside, and Louis takes fistfuls of his hair as Harry sucks on the first couple of inches. It’s hot, everything about Louis is, and it’s hot in Harry’s mouth and on his face and in his pants, and maybe it’s Harry the one who will have to perform a walk of shame in front of their crew.

“Hazza, Hazza, Hazza, _Hazza_ ,” Louis chants under his breath as Harry takes more of him in, till his lips nudge his hand, and then he takes the hand off and sinks in more, more, as much as he can. He gives one, two, three good sucks, tongue pressing on the vein, before easing off for a breather.

He plants wet kisses on the whole length as he takes deep breaths, Louis now stroking his head and ruffling his locks. “’M close,” Louis whispers as his legs quiver like the chord of a guitar that has just been struck.

Harry wraps his mouth around Louis’ cock again, going all in right away this time, then puts his hands on Louis’ arse cheeks, pulling him closer yet. He moves on and off him, again and again, taking more and more of him every time, till his nose collides with the fine hair of Louis’ pelvis. Harry nudges Louis’ cheeks open with his fingers as he continues sucking, and slides his index in between them as Louis starts shaking in earnest, almost rutting his hips and –

There’s a knock on the door.

“Boys?” Caroline calls from outside in her usual kind tone. “I’m sorry, darlings, but we’re running really late now. You have to get ready.”

Louis slips out of Harry’s mouth with a defeated groan and pulls up his clothes with extreme vexation, and Harry doesn’t even try to stifle his laughter.

“How am I supposed to explain this?” Louis squeaks, pointing to his very much tenting groin.

Harry shrugs. It’s not like anyone is actually going to ask for details, are they? “You can always say you have a banana shoved down your pants.”

“And how would I explain _that_?”

Okay, fair enough. That’s a bit tougher.

“Um. Massive food fight?” Harry suggests, and Louis leaves the room slamming the door behind him.

 

 

_[The interviewer asks them why they were late]_

_Louis: Just a bit of banter, I think [blatantly adjusts his trousers]_

_Liam: (Harry's hair) wasn't quite finished yet. It's quite curly._

_Harry: I lost my trousers._

_Louis: We had a massive food fight._

 

 

**  9th – pantone memory, greyscale eyes  **

 

“I’m fine,” Louis mutters, again, even though the word has lost its meaning at least five _I’m fines_ ago. He doesn’t even raise his eyes from his phone this time, and keeps making a scrolling motion with his thumb. Harry hopes he’s checking the tumblr Louis would never admit he has, and not manically refreshing twitter.

He makes eyes contact with Lottie, who’s sitting on the floor next to him, and she raises her eyebrows and gives him the same _do something_ hand motion Louis does all the time.

Do something. Do something. Harry can do something, all right.

“Um,” he says, and that’s all his brain supplies. Stupid brain. What is it good for, anyway.

Still, his pathetic noise gets Louis to look up, and his whole face softens when he sees Harry’s tentative pout. “I’m –”

“Fine, yeah, we gathered,” Liam cuts in with his clumsy teasing voice. As always, Harry wishes he would leave the joking to Louis. Or to anyone else, honestly.

Louis, apparently, agrees with Harry. “Well, you can leave me home if I bother you so much, Liam,” Louis says casually, his attention back to the phone in his hand. It’s so heart-breaking that Harry doesn’t even feel the sting at him calling the house his and not _theirs_. “You can all leave, actually.”

Harry swears he can hear an echo there in their living room during the pause that follows.

“Or, we could order dinner,” Niall chimes in after a minute, overcompensating with bubbliness. “Personally, ‘m starving.”

Zayn hums in agreement, nudging Louis’ leg with his foot. Harry can usually appreciate Zayn and Louis’ _broness_ , but today he just wants to sit down between them and maybe possibly gently kick Zayn off the couch. He settles for staring very very hard at their point of contact.

As if on cue, Louis pulls his knees up to his chest, rearranges his fringe with his free hand and mumbles, “Whatever”.

Dinner it is, then.

“I’ll go get the take out menus,” Lottie announces, clapping her hands together and standing up.

“Do you know –”

“Yes, Harry, I know where they are,” she snorts and darts out of the room. Always practical and down-to-Earth, Lottie. Harry appreciates their friendship more each day.

It’s weird, having both her and the lads here. The unofficial Louis Tomlinson fan club, minus the parents. Harry feels at the same time more and less split, this way, being here both as bandmate and as family, if there is even a difference between the two.

Liam clears his throat, loud, then speaks again, much more tentative than before. “So, um, did your lawyer say anything?” he asks.

“My lawyer? Oh, the phone call. We weren’t talking about today.” Louis clarifies with more bitterness than necessary, a tone that says _of course it wasn’t about that_. As if being told _There will be consequences_ by a member of your own team was a regular occurrence for him.

(At a point in time, it probably had been.)

“And did Harry say anything else?” Niall asks, and seems almost surprised when Louis sighs deeply instead of lashing out right away.

“I told you. He took me aside after the livestream, said he was rather disappointed in my behaviour and informed me that _there will be consequences_ ,” he finishes, imitating Magee’s deep irritating voice.

“So, we… wait?” Zayn prompts, leaning into Louis’ space to try to get something from him, something more than this unnerving resigned wall of loneliness he’s putting up.

Louis rolls his eyes with a low whine, looking up at the ceiling and dropping the phone on the couch. “No, _I_ wait. You do whatever you want, possibly somewhere else.”

Okay, enough. That’s all Harry can take. He won’t let Louis stack one more brick around himself. “Louis, please,” he says, knowing it will further irritate Louis, but it will also make him look at Harry, focus on him properly, and maybe that will snap him out of whatever hole of despair and self-loathing he’s hiding in.

As expected, Louis trains his gaze on him, the _please fucking what_ evident in the curve of his lips, the fieriness in his eyes, but it never gets out. Instead, he deflates like a popped balloon, letting out a chagrined sigh. “Alright, then. Let’s focus on dinner, lads, shall we? I want pizza,” he says, voice loud and only strained at the seams. His gaze floats around the room without landing on anyone in particular.

He must realise, though, how much the atmosphere is still tense and uncertain, because he follows with a snappy, “What?”

“Babe, we don’t want you to feel alone,” Harry tries to clarify but, as the words leave his mouth, he hears how strange they sound. It’s not a weird sentence, it’s a rather appropriate one, so –

“So kiss me where I lay down,” continues Liam, face absolutely stoic, not a quiver in his tone.

“My arms pressed to your cheeks,” adds Zayn, as serious as Liam.

Of course, the verse is finished by Niall, who’s already gasping for air but somehow spits out a blubbering, “A long way from the playground.”

Louis gives them the same look he gives Bruce when he catches him munching on one of his vans, and goes as far as to cover his ears when the four of them start to harmonise a very heartfelt, “I have loved you since we were eighteen.”

“For God’s sake, just stop it,” he yells when they get to the end of the chorus. “Have you quite finished?” he asks as they fall silent, and they are, they are quite finished, but the air is still charged with _something_. They are all on the edges of their seat, even Harry who’s on the floor, and they must look like four Jack-in-a-box ready to spring.

There’s only one thing to do, really. _Come on, Lou…_

“Oh dear me,” Louis whines when things click in his head, but finally he opens his arms. “Okay, okay. Bring it in.”

“Oh-tee-five cuddle!” Niall screams as they all pile up on Louis, and Harry takes advantages of the chaos of lads and limbs to slide in between Louis and the armrest and hugging his middle. Louis is wearing Harry’s baby blue sweater that he stole earlier, before the Hangout, and he smells like a delicious mixture of HarryandLouis. Harry is never letting go of him.

It’s like this that Lottie finds them, all tangled up like a ball of boybander yarn. “Oh my God, you are seriously five weirdos,” she says, tapping her foot on the ground to get their attention. “Anyway, I ordered pizza, because Louis always wants pizza when he’s sad.”

Lottie is truly the bestest.

The pizzas come in record time – the pizzeria being one they go to often; they know the owners, and the owners know who live at that address. Despite it being Louis’ favourite pizza place in London, and him trying to be convivial, dinner is subdued at best. The vibe brightens considerably when Harry offers beer to everyone and suggests playing video games instead of watching a movie, and they all relax as they shoot aliens, participate in the World Cup and play vicious living room golf one against the other. By the end of the evening, Louis is happily leading England to victory while perched on Harry’s lap, aka exactly where he’s supposed to be.

The lads leave at the same time, even Lottie refusing Harry’s offer to stay the night, and they all hug Louis and murmur things to him as they do. Louis, being Louis, pretends to be annoyed by the attention but, when he closes the door behind them, he digs the heels of his hands in his eyes and breathes in and out for a good minute.

After that, he lets his arms fall to his sides and looks at Harry with a shiny gaze, his mouth stuck in a thin line. He seems tired, like he could sit down against the door and curl up there forever.

Harry takes a step toward him, nervously scratching an elbow. He knows that it doesn’t matter how much time you spend with someone, you can’t always be able to read what they want, what they need. But fuck, he wishes it were possible. That there was a Louis handbook he could consult in cases like this.

“So, it’s just us now,” he ends up saying, cringing at his own inanity.

“Yes,” Louis rebuts, flippant, “that’s usually what happens when you live together.”

Harry has to stop himself from stepping back. He doesn’t do well with nervous comments thrown at him, even when he knows it’s just a matter of defective filter, a reflexive reaction for Louis.

Louis catches himself immediately, though, hiding his head in his palms and mumbling a string of _sorry sorry sorry I’m an arsehole sorry_ , and that’s how long Harry can resist before taking him into his arms. Louis buries his face into Harry’s sweater right away, nuzzling his nose into it and letting out a shaky sigh, his small hands clutching fistfuls of wool on Harry’s back.

“It’s going to be okay, love, it’s going to be okay,” Harry repeats over and over, patting Louis’ head as he lets out excruciating empty sobs. And it has to be – okay. It will be. He isn’t sure of the day, the month, but he is sure of it. They are going to be fine. “What do you need?” he asks when Louis seems calmer, his breathing steadier.

“Just – stay here, for a bit, I just want to stay like this, please,” answers the man who can never stay still, never settle and relax, always fidgety, jumpy, ready to go, to move onto the next exciting thing.

Harry holds him tighter.

 

 

** 10th – When the sun rose like a bomb **

 

The thing is, Louis is cheerful. Awfully, unstoppably cheerful.

Has been all day, from when Harry woke up with Louis’ mouth on his cock all the way through breakfast, during which Louis draped himself over Harry’s back and refused to let go until Harry was done cooking, and then didn’t even pretend to get mad while Harry was stealing sausages off his plate. And while they were about to shower, and Louis insisted they _had_ to take a bath together and got Harry to lit candles and place them all around the Jacuzzi. Later, when they were lying in the steaming bubbly water, and they discovered that underwater sex was, despite all their efforts, still a bad idea.

When they were getting dressed, and Louis had put his fingertips on Harry’s jaw as if it was made of the finest china and just watched him with his soft Harry smile, like he wanted to commit to memory all of Harry’s acne.

For someone who’s basically cried himself to sleep the night before, it is a disconcerting behaviour.

At lunch, in front of hamburgers Louis has personally convinced the chef of this pricey café to cook for them even though they aren’t on the menu, Harry snaps.

“Louis,” he says, putting his knife and fork down.

“Dearest Harold,” Louis rebuts, then happily takes a bite of his bun. He’s just so _happy_. And, like, Harry is happy when Louis is happy, but this is honestly madness. It doesn’t make any sense.

Harry leaves Louis enough time to add something, but he continues eating, seemingly without a care in his world. He only stops for a brief moment, and what comes out of his mouth is: “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, ever. Haz, come on, eat, It’ll get cold.”

Harry purses his lips. He doesn’t want to burst Louis’ bubble, but he doesn’t know how to act. Louis is, despite outward appearances, a very reasonable person. Harry doesn’t know how to handle an unreasonable Louis.

“Aren’t you, like, worried? About the, um, consequences?”

“Took you long enough to ask,” Louis replies with a smile, skewering a piece of bacon and popping it into his mouth. “I don’t know, to be honest. If they want to do something, they’ll do it regardless of me worrying or not worrying, you know? Plus, they can’t address the articles specifically. I mean, what are they going to do, tweet that allegedly supporting LGBT people offends me?”

“I don’t know, Lou. Like, remember the pornographic tweet on my account.”

Harry cringes at the memory, at the cold shower that whole day had been.

“Oh, maybe they could do something like that,” Louis says, unperturbed. “Like some good ol’ het porn. Very laddy, that. Anyway, if it’s something in the likes, only the fans will notice, the general public would still only see the good articles.”

He’s so composed, so bloody… buoyant. That’s it, Louis has lost it. Years of psychological warfare with publicists and music labels have taken their toll, deteriorating Louis’ sanity bit by bit, and it’s finally starting to show. It’s the only logical explanation Harry can find.

“Right. I hope you’re right,” he says, opting to give Louis some more time before accusing him of having lost the plot.

“Cheer up, baby cakes.” Oh, God. He’s _baby cakes_ _happy_. He hasn’t been _baby cakes happy_ more than twice a year since 2011, and those are usually anniversaries. This is serious. “Yesterday sucked, alright, but let’s focus on the positives. Like, tomorrow we have to go get you inked. And today… today is going to be great.”

What?

“Are you- did you? Are you high?” he leans over the table and sniffs Louis’ face, but smells nothing out of the ordinary.

“No, stop it.” Louis giggles and gives him a _shoo_ gesture. “I’m not high. I’ve just got good news. Eat your burger and I’ll tell you.”

Harry can’t think of a single good news Louis might have received in the last twelve hours, so he widens his eyes and asks, “Are you pregnant?”

Louis really is happy, because Harry’s question is enough to send him into a fit of laughter. “Less talking, more chewing, you,” he mumbles when he has calmed down, eyes a bit teary.

Harry tries to eat slowly and savour the food even if he’s itching to swallow it whole in one bite, because Louis is a true pain and actually won’t talk to him until he’s done.

When Harry’s plate is empty, he announces it with a bright, “Done!” and Louis shoots him a playful smirk.

“No stealing from me plate this time, love?”

Harry darts his fork out and steals a leftover tomato just to spite him. “Stop deflecting and speak, Tommo.”

“ _Tommo_ , wow, must be a serious matter then,” Louis says coolly, sipping on his artisanal beer, or whatever the waiter had said it was.

Oh, what an infuriating little shit. “Looooouis. Boobear. Sweetcheeks. Baby kitten. Banana muffin. Pumpkin spiced latte. Ow –”

“In what universe is _pumpkin spiced latte_ considered a term of endearment, Harold?”  

“– ner of my one and only true love, your bum. Spill, please,” Harry finishes, figuring that some politeness can’t hurt, even with such terrible terrible individuals. If only Harry wasn’t a slave of Louis’ luscious backside... One bum to rule them all, really.

“Okay,” Louis concedes with the fakest sigh Harry’s ever seen. “You haven’t asked nicely at all, but I’m magnanimous, so I’ll tell you. Ehr.” He licks his lips and fidgets with the napkin, his eyes getting shiftier. “You know my lawyer called me yesterday, right?” Harry nods, suddenly becoming more alert. “And I had already mentioned the idea of starting my own production company.”

“And?” Harry prompts when Louis falters, despite the conclusion of his speech being self-evident, and grasps Louis’ hand into his. It has tortured the poor napkin long enough.

Louis thumbs Harry’s palm, a satisfied half-smirk curving his mouth. “And it might become more than an idea today.”

“No fucking way,” Harry cries, unable to stop himself, loud enough to attract the attention of some of the other customers. “Oh my God Lou, that’s amazing. That’s great. I’m so proud, pumpkin spiced latte of mine.” He clenches Louis’ hand in both of his, and watches as Louis smiles and averts his eyes, drawing his shoulders in. He’s so, so proud. Louis deserves to have all of his wishes come true, and Harry wants to celebrate him any step of the way. Speaking of, “Champagne, we need champagne asap!”

“No, no, no, wait,” Louis says, making an abortive hand movement to the waiter approaching them. “No champagne, no fanfare. That’s why I didn’t say anything before, sorry. It’s just that we all go so excited over the Rovers deal, and look at how that turned out,” he huffs, disentangling their hands and drinking some more beer. “We should just… chill.”

Chill. Roger that. Harry has a thousand and one questions he wants to ask, was already making plans for a congratulatory bash, but he can be chill. Chill as a cucumber. Harry will be the chilliest most cucumberish person ever. Call him Benedict Cucumberbatch.

“Of course, Lou,” he says, and pours some beer into his own glass. He doesn’t like drinking alcohol at lunch, but, like. He’s being chill. “We can chill. I can be chill AF.”

“I’m done AF with this stupid meme,” Louis groans, but he’s too Harry AF to be truly annoyed. He squints his lids, though, when something behind Harry’s shoulder catches his attention. “Hey, do we know that bloke?”

Harry turns to see who Louis is referring to, and sees a man eating with one hand and typing on a tablet with the other. They do know him, and something about his profile reminds Harry of flashing lights and black backgrounds. "The Guardian,” he replies in a rush, when it comes back to him. “He’s the interviewer from The Guardian. Name’s Tom something, I think?”

“Yup, that’s him,” Louis scowls. “Proper dick, he was.”

He was a bit of a dick, okay, but he was trying to write something interesting about them, however misguided. It’s more than can be said for many other journalists. “It wasn’t that bad, come on.”

Louis checks his watch with a sigh, refusing to voice the _you’re too kind_ evident in his features. “Well, I have to go make an honest businessman out of me. You should go say hi.”

He stands up and walks around the table, before leaning down and kissing the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I’ll see you at home, love. Thanks for lunch.”

“Excuse me, when did I agree to buy you lunch?” Harry asks with poorly contained amusement, as he sorts the collar of Louis’ open shirt out. Going to the lawyer’s office in a t-shirt with a jeans shirt over it, classic Louis.

Louis sneaks a couple of glances around them, but must deem the situation safe enough, because he kisses Harry again, properly now, prying his lips open. “My dear, buying me lunch is not something you agree to. It’s a blessing.”

Louis starts walking away, then, leaving Harry in the midst of his cackling, but Harry focuses long enough to give Louis a smack on the bum with the back of his hand. He watches Louis leave a tip to their waiter and exit the café with a spring in his step, only turning around when he’s at the door to send Harry a wink.

Harry winks back. Then, when Louis is gone, he does go say hi to Tom.

 

*

 

They only see each other again late in the evening, both knackered and craving an early night in. They are too tired to do more than briefly catch up on Louis’ meeting, which goes something like:

“Did you call a pap?” “Only because I liked how my fringe looked.”

&

“We need to think of a name now.” “See, it is a bit like being pregnant.”

They are basically already asleep when Louis' phone vibrates on the nightstand.

“Can you get it for me?” Louis calls, and Harry immediately picks it up.

It’s Lottie.

It says _check ur twitter :(_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4th-5th-6th – Titles from ‘Anyone Else But You’ by The Moldy Peaches  
> 8th-9th-10th – Titles from ‘Colorblind’ by Chroma Key


	3. Chapter 3

** 11th – Patterns **

**  
**

“Okay, I’m going to ask one last time,” Louis says, examining the design once again. “Are you sure, like, positive that you want the mermaid to have her tits out?”

Liam barks out a laugh behind them and holds up the stencil for Harry to see. “This what you wanted? We could still put a bra on it,” he suggests with a shit-eating grin. Why do people always team up with Louis?

“No way. I don’t think they have Victoria’s Secret shops underwater,” Harry comments, distractedly, as he takes the stencil and traces each line with his eyes. It’s exactly what he wants.

“Nipple pasties, then,” Louis supplies helpfully, reaching out a hand and pinching Harry’s left nipple.

Harry bats his hand away and elbows him, but can’t tear his gaze away from the mermaid. “There’s probably no Agent Provocateur either, Lou.”

Just naming it is enough for chills to explode deep in his belly, but now he’s more important things to think about. Mermaid. Mermaid mermaid mermaid.

“So, should I set everything up?” Liam asks and Harry lifts his head to nod at him enthusiastically. That mermaid is going to be _his_. On his body. Permanently. Right now. “We do the mermaid first, then the bottle, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe take a break between the two,” Louis answers for Harry, circling his arms around his waist, squeezing. Before Louis can disentangle them, Harry covers the fists resting on his belly with the hand that’s not holding the stencil, and keeps him there.

“What?” Louis stage-whispers into his ear, and Harry can feel him standing on his tippy toes to reach higher.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, equally low, turning his face as much as he can. As if on cue, Louis jumps a bit to leave a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth.

“Sure, babe,” he says easily. “You know I’m not actually afraid of needles.”

“Yeah, Lou-”

“Or of boobs. Perks of being in fact straight, I guess.”

And Harry’s heart skips a beat, because this is too direct for him, too raw. It’s how Louis wishes to deal with it, though, so if Louis wants to make jokes like it’s just a stupid anecdote and not something that completely crushed him yesterday night, then Harry will humour him in any way possible.

“Well, you did use to have a thing for giving me boobs.”

Louis chuckles, loud, and tightens his grip on him even more. “Let’s go give you boobs, Harold, then, by all means,” he says, nudging him forward and giving him a half kiss, half bite between shoulder and neck. And that’s just unfair, really.

Harry settles down on the seat and puts his arm on the armrest, letting Liam twist it the way he wants and clean his skin. He holds his breath as Liam presses the stencil on him, his hand searching for Louis’. Louis makes fun of him for it – that he’s more nervous about the stencil than about getting the actual tattoo. It’s not stupid, though. Getting inked is just a bit of pain. If you see the stencil on your skin and aren’t 100% sure you truly like it, and know that if you don’t decide in the following, like, three minutes, it’s going to be stuck on you forever – that’s what’s terrifying.

Louis takes his hand without hesitation today and, with a squeeze, Harry realises that it’s as much for him as it is for Louis himself. When Liam takes the stencil paper off, though, Harry doesn’t feel any doubt at all.

“Holy shit,” it’s all he manages, throaty and sudden, and making both Louis and Liam chuckle at him.

“Good ‘holy shit’?” Liam asks just to be sure, but he’s already reaching for the needle.

Harry digs his thumb into Louis’ palm and nods. “Very good.”

He keeps his eyes firmly on his arm until Liam draws the first line, ever fascinated with this art, and it’s just as painful and just as pleasing as he remembers. It’s not a particularly tender spot, there on his forearm, and soon enough he can lean back and relax, lulled by the comforting buzzing of the needle. He turns his attention to Louis and finds him staring intently at the budding tattoo, entranced by Liam’s movements.

“What about you Louis? Nothing new for you?” Liam asks, snapping Louis out of his reverie.

Louis stays silent for a while, a small frown on his features, as he plays with Harry’s fingers. “No,” he says, eventually, but his voice is wistful and rough. When Harry had told him about the mermaid, and they’d come up with the ironic ‘you booze you lose’ bottle, Louis had said he wanted to wait at least some months before getting another one, but now he is looking at the gun like he wants to snatch it from Harry’s skin and put it on his. Harry can’t blame him; nothing makes you want to do something more than seeing someone else doing it.

“No?” Liam continues as he works on the mermaid’s tail. “Not even a tiny thing to match the empty label on Harry’s bottle? Like three Xs, or a skull?”

Harry’s face almost splints in two with his smile while Louis rolls up his left sleeve, revealing the skull on his wrist. The two tattoos aren’t meant to be matching, per se, and they have different underlying meanings, but Harry wouldn’t mind if they were interpreted as a set. Accidental matching tattoos: a new frontier.

“Er,” Louis mutters, making Liam lifts his eyes while he’s swiping some ink off.

Liam gives an amused sigh. “I fucking knew it,” he chuckles, focusing back on Harry’s arm. “You two are ridiculous. Bloody cute, all right, but ridiculous.”

They are, there’s no denying it. Harry’s not offended in the slightest.

 

 

** 12th – Jelly beans and gummy bears **

 

“Lunch yesterday and phone call today?” Gemma’s voice is crisp when she picks up. “You are spoiling me.”

“Hi Gems,” Harry replies amiably. As amiably as he can be with the lump currently obstructing his throat, that is. It’s… not a very good day.

“Hello pop tart. How’s your arm?”

Oh, well. That’s a question Harry can answer. “You may say it’s doing _swimmingly_.”

“Harry.”

“The design is truly _off the scale.”_

“Oh come on –”

“Though it itches a bit,” he continues idly, “but I’m keeping it all _bottled up.”_

Gemma pauses, and they both stay there, listening to static. After some seconds, she asks, “Are you done?”

Harry feels a smile forming on his face, despite everything. “I am. How are you, sis?”

“Fine. On a sad lunch break all by myself. An uneventful day, really.”

“Not sad anymore that I called you, though, is it?”

“Do not make silly assumptions.”

“Ouch. Mean.”

“Thank you. Now tell me, what’s troubling you, H?”

“Um.” Harry scans the office where’s he’s hiding, post-its and papers and trinkets all over the place, covering every surface. What is troubling him? “I’m at the X Factor studios.”

“Okay.”

“With Louis,” he specifies. “I wasn’t supposed to come, but I didn’t, like, want him to be alone. Or, um. I didn’t want to be home without him. And I told it to Kim, and she was so thrilled, wants me to get papped here. Anyway.”

“And where is Louis?” Gemma asks with a softness that makes Harry want to dig his nails into his palm. He doesn’t do it.

“He went off with Simon. God knows what they are doing. Strategizing, like.”

Whatever that means. What _does_ Simon do all day? Besides bathing in his millions, of course.

“And you didn’t go with them.”

“No, it’s- it’s Louis’ thing, not mine. I like the stage part, the behind-the-scenes is too manufactured. I’m just here for support.”

He hears Gemma inhale deeply before speaking. “Do you maybe want to leave?”

 “Maybe, I don’t know. But also, like, no. I want to keep an eye on him, check how he’s doing. Only he’s so… alright.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m great,” he says with a laughter as scratching as sandpaper. “He’s great. We’re all great.”

“And that’s… a… problem?” Gemma says carefully. “I mean, I know what happened. The livestream, the tweets, the hurt, etcetera. But maybe he truly is okay. And maybe you’re upset because you’re the one who isn’t, like, okay.”

Leave it to Gemma to hit the nail in the head with a single sentence.

“No, I know. I’m afraid he’s not actually fine, just hiding it from me. Him and his infuriating protective streak.” He huffs, rubs his eyes with his free hand. “What I mean is. Is it one of those times where I, like, project things onto him? Or should I be worried?”

Gemma is silent for a long while. Twenty-two seconds, precisely, as Harry counts on the watch hanging on the wall in front of him. Twenty-two seconds, and what she comes up with is, “Bleurgh.”

“Bleurgh?”

“I’m thinking. I didn’t want you to think I was, like, choking on my salad.”

“I think _blurgh_ is exactly the sound you would make if you were choking on your salad.”

“Mh, fair enough. Anyway, about the topic at hand,” she clears he throat, as if she’s preparing for a big speech, “I think you have reasons to be worried. I also think you should talk to him.”

Him being Louis? Talk to extra-cheerful cute kitten Louis about very much not cheerful things? Fuck, isn’t there a way of knowing what he’s thinking without alerting him of it? Like, hypnotising him, maybe. Liam said something about a hypnotiser once. “Not an easy person to talk to, Louis.”

“Not that difficult either, though,” Gemma rebuts immediately. “The guy can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life.”

Harry lets out a sullen groan. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Louis. He wants to, very much a lot. It’s just that sometimes Harry makes big deals out of things that Louis finds irrelevant. If Louis is okay, Harry has to avoid making him not-okay.

But, goddammit, they publicly made him seem like an homophobic asshat, how can he be okay?

“Or,” Gemma continues. “You could wait for him to bring it up. Give him hints without outright mentioning the subject. Does that make sense?”

Give him hints. Give him hints. It could be an idea. “Hints like what, Gems? Say ‘in fact’ multiple times during a conversation?”

There’s a sound on the other end, like a mouth snapping open, but nothing else comes through.

“Gems?”

“You know what, maybe you just should be blunt.”

Harry giggles, although he’s quite convinced that Gemma’s not joking at all. He feels lighter, anyway. A bit freer. Like the water’s now at his knees and not at his neck.

“I’ll give him a couple of days, see if anything changes,” he resolves, sagging into the chair he’s sitting on. He tells himself that there’s no good choice or bad choice, that Louis is more than capable of taking care of his own heart, or come to him for help if he needs it.

“Okay, enough about my boy troubles. Let’s hear about yours,” he says then, because if he hijacks Gemma’s lunch break he must at least be a decent brother. Plus, mum had mentioned that thing…

“I resent that. I have no boy troubles whatsoever,” Gemma replies, much too fast, her voice getting all I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about-ish.

Uh-uh.

“Do you seriously think that mum doesn’t fill me in on things? I’m insulted, Gems. But, you can redeem yourself if you spill everything about drinks with Hot New Intern.”

“That woman, I swear,” Gemma grumbles, but it’s surprisingly easy to pry details out of her. Hot New Intern must be really hot.

They chat for while, about Gemma’s love life and life in general, her work. They make plans for her to pick up Bruce and Selina during the next days, before Harry and Louis leave for their two weeks in the US and in Australia. They are just saying goodbye when Harry hears a “Haz?” from outside the office.

“’m here,” he calls, and Gemma hangs up with a chuckle and a “See you in two days.”

“Hazza, are you in here?” Louis tentatively opens the door and peers his head in. His face breaks into a smile as he spots him. “Oh, there you are. I’ve looked everywhere,” he says, and makes his way into the room, navigating around the desk to come to stand next to Harry. He sits down on the desk and deposits a brown bag in Harry’s lap. “Simon said to go get lunch, so I stole two sandwiches from the catering buffet. Yours is with organic guacamole, or something equally posh.”

“Organic guacamole?” Harry repeats with an incredulous giggle, prying the bag open and extracting the sandwiches. He figures the one with the green sauce seeping through the wrapper is his, and gives Louis the other.

Louis unwraps it and takes a bite. “Yep, apparently one of the judges only eats that. They wouldn’t tell me who, but I bet it’s Mel B.”

Mel B actually seemed a rather down-to-earth and nice person, from what Harry had seen and heard of her, but Louis will not forgive her soon for sabotaging Jack’s chances, who had to leave the competition mere days after Harry and the rest of the band had met him, as Louis had predicted.

“I don’t know,” Harry quips, biting into the no doubt organic whole wheat bread encasing the precious organic guacamole. It’s fucking delicious. “Louis has always struck me as a demanding arse. It may be him as well.”

Louis nudges one of Harry’s arms with his foot. “Would you let me hate Mel B in peace, please?”

“Only if you give me some of that,” Harry retorts, pointing at Louis’ now half-eaten sandwich.

“Kale King Harry Styles wants to try a lowly ham and cheese toast,” Louis announces with grandiosity as he exchanges his sandwich for Harry’s. “Happy days in the kingdom.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, hiding his smile in the food.

Louis almost moans when he tastes the guacamole – actually, he does moan, eyes closed and everything, but catches himself right away and clears his throat with a little disgruntled frown. He’s absurd, and very cute with some green sauce staining his bottom lip, so cute that Harry has to plant his feet on the ground and lift up enough to lick it away with a kiss.

He’s about to seat back down, but Louis swallows the last piece of sandwich and throws his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him closer and closer, until he’s standing between Louis’ open legs.

“You know,” Louis says, their eyes locked, as Harry discards his sandwich somewhere on the desk and plants his hands on Louis’ narrow hips. “It’s weird that they’re still using the same studious as four years ago.” Yeah, it is weird, but Harry thought they were going somewhere else with – “I’m quite sure we got off in here at some point.”

 _Oh_. Definitely the right direction, then. And the place does look familiar, but they are not here to reminisce fond memories, are they? 

“I don’t remember,” Harry answers with a coy smile, slipping his thumbs under Louis’ t-shirt and caressing his sides.

Louis brings up his mouth to kiss him right away, and they both get lost in it too much for the garlic in their breaths to bother them. “Want me to refresh your memory, babe?” he whispers between kisses.

Harry wants it, he wants it so much he’d scream it at the top of his lungs, but he’s here to make Louis feel safe and loved. Make him feel good. Louis may be a master at hiding and suppressing things, but there has been a baseline tension in all his movements in the last days. Thankfully, Harry is a master at making Louis relax.

“What if instead we showed this place something it has never seen before?” Harry asks into Louis’ ear, and he’s close enough to hear him gulp. He moves his hands under Louis’ bum, his fingers nudging Louis’ cheeks apart through his jeans.

He feels Louis arch his back and push down against him, as he whines, “We don’t have lube, Haz.”

Oh, Louis has no idea what he’s in for.

“No need for lube.” Harry nibbles at Louis’ earlobe, rocking his hips forward and using his grip on Louis’ arse to make their crotches collide. “I don’t want to fuck you. I just want some dessert.”

Louis lets out a high-pitched wail, his body going along everything Harry does. “We only have, uh – twenty minutes,” he warns, though, slipping a hand to Harry’s jaw and turning it to face him.

Fuck, right. Louis is here to work, not to muck around like him. Of course he doesn’t have time for a rim job, and Harry shouldn’t even have started teasing him, what has gotten into him? He should –

Louis tightens his grasp on Harry’s chin, staring at him with fiery eyes.

“Harry, go lock the bloody door.”

 

 

** 13th – The Meeting **

 

“I told you, she didn’t look bumpy at all.”

“So basically you called the Duchess of Cambridge fat. Way to go, Hazza.”

 

 

** 14th – No such green **

 

To be honest, Harry would love England much more if it weren’t so bloody cold. LA has many, many defects, including but not limited to the hardly negligible body of water separating it from Holmes Chapel, but you have to give credit when it’s due: no one’s nose threatens to fall off in LA.

Now, he’d also have a lot less problems if Louis made a little effort and fucking quitted smoking. If he doesn’t want to do it for his lungs, or for not making Harry a premature widower, he could at least do it for Harry’s nose. He should at least consider it carefully. A person without nose can’t very well give blowjobs.

Before he can voice his nose-related concerns, Louis drapes himself over Harry’s back, careful not to jostle his delicate spine too much, and plants a kiss on his neck, his arms squeezing Harry’s middle.

“Thank you for coming out with me, pumpkin,” he says in between kissing and sucking at his skin. Harry will have to wear his hair down for days if Louis keeps going.

“You’re very welcome,” Harry answers and turns around in Louis’ arms, taking him in under the fluorescent lights of this random corridor of the Elstree Studios.

He looks exceptionally tiny, all bundled up in a dark jeans jacket, his cheeks coloured and his eyes gleaming and clear, and Harry wants to frame him. He still doesn’t like winter, but can appreciate his perks.

As it is the only sensible thing to do, Harry whips out his phone.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks with the resigned face of someone who knows exactly what Harry is doing. 

Harry brings a hand around Louis’ shoulders, while raising the phone with the other. “We should take a selfie,” he explains, rather unnecessarily, while attempting to fit them both in the frame.

“Oh my God, alright,” Louis concedes, and Harry can see him grimacing in the screen. It won’t do. If Louis tries to cross his eyes and point at him as if he were a fan and not his bloody boyfriend…

“Do not pull a face, Lewis,” he says, trying to sound menacing while smiling at the camera.

“Well, do not lean in the other direction, Harold.”

“You know I only ever lean in one direction,” Harry says, and sees Louis turn his head toward him and roll his eyes as he finishes with, “Yours”, and pushes the shutter button.

Harry expects to end up with a goofy snapshot, him looking into the camera and Louis, turned, frowning at him, but he’s wrong. Louis is, well, the picture of fondness, all crinkly-eyed and staring adoringly up at him, and they look so beautiful together, so unbelievably well fitting. His thumb hovers over the share button, and it would be so easy, so immediate, but he bites the inside of his cheek and clicks on the ‘use as home screen’ one. 

Louis leans into Harry’s space to look at the picture, and Harry can see his profile soften as he takes it in. Louis looks up at him, then, and everything about him, even his cutting cheekbones and sardonic tongue and sharp angles seem mellower and warmer.

“There’s no such green as your eyes, love,” Louis whispers, and it’s like the sound waves resonate into Harry’s rib cage, and his heart takes them and propagates them through all his body with each beat, up to his brain and down to his feet, and in all the places in between, coiling in his belly and expanding with his lungs and dancing with his blood.

“Oh my God, you _dorks_ ,” Harry hears Lottie say from somewhere near them, but keeps his eyes on Louis for as long as he can, yearning for the moment not to shatter.

They both turn toward her as she speaks again, though, walking up to them. “First of all, I will ignore what you sad, Louis, because I love you. Secondly, I can take a picture of you two, if you’d like.”

“No, don’t worry –” Louis starts, but Harry interrupts him immediately with a, “Actually….”

Lottie has warmed up considerably in the last months to the idea of them as a couple, but Harry still thinks they should cherish and encourage any time she opens up to them. Plus, he has an idea.

“Actually,” he repeats. “Do you want to take a picture with us? Like,” he swallows, shooting a glance at Louis. “A picture for the public?”

“Haz –” Louis says, frowning, just as Lottie gives him an intrigued smile and nods.

“Okay. Lou, give me your phone,” Harry instructs, ignoring Louis’ confused protests until he huffs and complies. He takes the proffered phone and opens the camera app, extending his arm and pointing the screen at it, making sure that his cross tattoo is perfectly visible. “Now cover the rope with your sleeve and put your hand on mine – maybe in a fist,” he adds. Their hands one of top of the other may be a bit too much, and Louis’ outstretched hand is recognisable as hell. Harry wants for people to be able to tell that it’s Louis – he also doesn’t want to be sued for it.

( _I can teach you how to skirt around some clauses while you’re still under this contract_ , Irving had said while feasting on shellfish and champagne in one of the poshest restaurants in LA _. It’s like walking on a tightrope. Can you be a funambulist, Harry?_ )

He feels Louis’ knuckles resting on the back of his hand.

“Lottie, put your arm on Louis’,” he says, and Lottie does. Both Tomlinson are staring at him like he’s lost his mind, but it doesn’t matter. There are no faces included in the frame.

He snaps the picture and takes his hand away, while with the other he sends the file to his phone. Then he opens his Instagram, puts a black and white filter on the picture and uploads it before he can chicken out.

 _There’s no such green_ , reads the caption. Who knows what the fans will make of it.

“You’re absolutely bloody bonkers,” Louis comments with a patient smile. “I have to run to the loo before someone hunts us down, will you wait here?”

“Sure,” Harry says, in time with Lottie’s, “Of course,” and Louis beams at them both before happily strutting away.

It’s not a secret that Louis enjoys Harry and Lottie’s developing friendship. Harry does as well, and Lottie seems to. Louis and Lottie had some very rough months in the last year, and it’s just a huge relief for everyone, and especially for Jay, that the two have found an understanding.

It still hits him like a punch in the gut, if a punch in the gut can be pleasant and very welcome, when he hears her mutter, "You’re really good for him.”

After she was told, she refused to see Louis for a week. Then, she came out of her isolation and spent hours watching them, Louis and Harry, without commenting, just observing, with a look that said _let me see. Let me see if this is as epic as they make it out to be. If this is worth lying to one’s family for._

“He’s really good for me too,” he murmurs back, because he wouldn’t know what else to say.

“Glad to hear that. But I meant, like. You know he’s a bit of a tosser, and the whole trip to Paris… whatever,” she says quickly, looking up at him as if she’s just spilled milk and hopes he hasn’t noticed. To be fair, Harry wasn’t sure if she knew about Paris or not. “But he’s so proud of you and, like, supportive and stuff. Even if he acts like a tosser, maybe. What I mean is, if you can, like, cut him some slack.”

And Harry’s about to reply that _yeah, of course, but Louis never fails to let him know that he supports him, but thank you Lottie_ , when she continues. “It just sucks a bit for him, you know? Seeing you all out there with your headlines and whatnot, and him still in the same, um, shithole.”

She pronounces the last word sheepishly, like she’s afraid Harry would tell her off for swearing. Which is utterly ridiculous, Harry has heard her swearing hundreds of times, plus he’s not her brother. Not that her brother would ever scold her for that. So why is she staring at him with those big worried eyes?

And why is it so hard to breathe now?

Harry feels vacuum-sealed, with thick plastic trapping all his body and no air, nowhere. Fuck. It makes so much sense. Louis being distracted, distant. Paris. His desire to do something bold no matter the consequences. What he said in Austria. It all adds up, and Harry is a bloody idiot.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Lottie putting a gentle hand on his arm. “Harry?” she calls, half-whispers really.

Harry still hasn’t full control of his voice and stutters something, blinking too fast, when another, much more familiar Tomlinson hand settles on the small of his back.

“Sorry to interrupt, loves,” Louis says, not sorry at all, “but Harold’s presence is required. And I think Lou was looking for you, Lots.”

“You have way too much fun with this,” Lottie scoffs, but goes to find Lou nonetheless.

Louis chuckles and yells after her, “You’re the one who wanted to come work for us, babe.”

Like he doesn’t enjoy every minute of it, the big sap.

Still with an arm behind Harry’s back, Louis moves to stand in front of him, his other hand reaching out to caress Harry’s cheek. “Okay?”

Harry nods, leaning into the hot palm and dropping a kiss there. “You? What’s all this cheerfulness?”

 “I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Louis shrugs, but his smirk is bright and obvious. “Upload the picture, I mean.”

“It’s a pretty picture. Pretty subjects,” Harry says and that’s how long he resists before tilting down and drawing him into a kiss. He wants to tell him so many things. Dedicate to him so many poems. Write him so many songs. Climb every mountain, sail every sea, walk on every tightrope for him. But what breaks him every day is the crippling weight of all the things he cannot do. All the red lights in front of them.

When they separate, he buries his face in the crook of Louis’ neck and thinks, _there's no such green, there’s no such green._

 

 

** 15th – Interlude / Salt & Vinegar **

 

The whole thing is bizarre.

They're supposed to go out for dinner tonight, but Harry is currently nowhere to be found and all Louis has to go by is a rather unthorough ' _gone to tesco_ ' sent an hour ago.

Harry's been out of it the whole day, barely able to keep it together for their part in the song, and Louis knows he should have kept an eye on him the whole time, but it was a ten miles drive. He didn't think Harry would fucking disappear during a ten miles drive in separate cars.

 _babe?,_ he sends and hopes it reads a bit less desperate than it actually is. It's not that Harry can’t take care of himself, or that they need to be together always, but these two weeks have been so long and awful and Harry is hurting, Louis knows that, and double as well, because he doesn't think it's his right to hurt when he can go around making gay innuendos while Louis takes the blunts for it.

They haven't talked about it, too busy in their us-against-the-world bubble to realise that they don't even live in the same bubble, not right now, but they both know it. One of them has to suck it up and say it out loud, eventually.

Louis hears the front door opening and shutting and stands up in a flash, making a beeline for the foyer. Harry doesn't call for him like he usually does - he seems to be having a row with the keys. As Louis approaches him, it becomes quite obvious why.

"Lou," Harry drawls, startled, when he notices Louis standing there, and drops the keys. "Looooou, you're home."

"Yes," Louis says and moves to pick up the keys and lock the door. "And you're drunk."

The reek of alcohol is unmistakable from this distance, Harry just a foot away, currently struggling to take his coat off. He doesn't even try to deny it, and Louis can't tell if it's a good or a bad sign.

"Here, love, let me help." Louis reaches for Harry's shoulders and Harry mumbles something incoherent, his eyes cast downward, but lets him slide the heavy coat down without much of a fuss.

As Louis hangs the coat, Harry kicks his boots off with a dejected pout and his arms firm against his sides, his fists tightened. And Louis can't find it in himself to be mad at him, not even a bit, even if their plans for the night are ruined and he feels like he's on a rollercoaster, during the first part, when you slowly go higher and higher and think 'oh, this is not so bad, this is actually pretty nice, very nice view'.

"Lou. Lou. I think, I think like. I think you should leave me."

And then you go down, down, down.

"O-kay." Louis slings an arm around Harry's waist and motions to walk. "Let's go to our bedroom. You need to sit down for this. _I_ need to sit down for this."

"No, Lou, Louis, you can't," Harry says, his fucking oblong limbs everywhere but in the right direction and more than half his weight on Louis. Why couldn't he grow up normal-sized? "You can't, like, you can't let me do that to you, always, please, I always do the same things and you can't let me win every time, you can't, Lou, please, why didn't you stop me?"

"Haz, we're almost there. Cooperate for two seconds and we'll meticulously delve into the matter, I promise," Louis intercepts while manoeuvring him on the stairs. It's not the first time Harry stumbles home inebriated, but he's usually clinging to Louis and begging to suck him off right there, not making confused yet emotionally charged speeches while trying to decapitate him with an elbow.

Somehow, Louis' expertise with gangly lampposts is enough to get them both into the bedroom and on the bed, where Harry lies down on his back before going off again.

"From the beginning, Lou, I got everything I wanted and you," Harry says with heavy breaths, every word battling with the fuzziness that must coat his mind and mouth. He keeps his gaze on the ceiling, but at least he doesn't flinch when Louis puts a hand on his cheek. "They kept telling you don't do this and don't do that and mind your wrist and don't do that thing with the hair and don't talk like that, don't sing like that, don't dance like that, repress everything, even the look in your eyes." As if to prove a point, Harry raises high gaze to Louis and he's very obviously on the verge of tears, and Louis doesn't know what to do but stroke his cheek.

He doesn't want to argue with Harry. They've been over this before, even though they try to avoid speaking of psychological damages or double standards or stuff like that; it's not like Louis doesn't see it, when he flinches away from Harry because he forgets he can touch him when they're alone, or he chooses something -an outfit, a movie, a bloody gesture, because it's more _straight,_ doesn't notice how Harry shrinks within himself under the weight of his guilt, how he looks down at his Saint Laurent shirts and bizarre hair choices and seems ready to tear them all out. And Louis loves him for that, but also loves him when Harry watches him with something that says _I'm glad it didn't have to be me_ , because everyone has limits and that's not nearly as bad as Harry thinks it is. So why are they at it again?

"This, Lou, this is, is all my fault," Harry hiccups through dry sobs, his chest heaving like it can't contain it all anymore. He's desperate and exhausted and Louis just wants to wrap him in blankets and lock them both in their home for a month at least.

"No it's not, baby, listen to me-"

"But it is. You could have been whatever you wanted. You are the leader Lou, you are the loud one, the interesting one. You should be the one that sells the papers, not the one people confuse with bloody Liam. But it's always me, innit? Harry fucking Styles, the cool guy, the rockstar-"

"I don't think anyone would call any of us a rockstar, to be fair, babe."

"Oh fuck you, Lou." Harry sits up and shrugs Louis' hand away, leaving him to stare at his back. "Why do you always have to do that? Why do you always brush everything off, like it's no matter? It matters to you, Louis, fuck, why won't you just let it out?"

"Wait," Louis says, raising an eyebrow, "wasn't it about you? Am I the problem now?"

He's trying for humorous, but it's apparently the worst thing he could have said ever, because Harry covers his face with his palms and starts crying in earnest. Louis circles Harry's shoulders with his arms, his chest to Harry's back, just as Harry slurs, "See? Fuck. Fuck me. I can't believe I'm taking it out on you, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking broken. I can't help it, can I? I push you down till you're on the floor and then I stand on you to be taller."

Louis tightens his hold on Harry, sweeps his hair away so he can rest his chin on Harry's shoulder. "It's not like that, love. Sometimes I prop you up, sometimes you prop me up. We're a team, you and I,” and he winces, because he said the opposite in Austria, but Harry’s too fuzzy to notice. “All the decisions we've made, we've made them together."

"Yeah?" Harry turns his head, his mouth close to Louis' ear, his voice brimming with bitterness. "And Caroline Flack, was that a decision we made together? "

So he's going there. Harry jumps up and looks much more sober now, towering over Louis, half angry and half pleading, and there's no stopping him now, is there?

"Haz-"

"I don't remember you agreeing to me becoming Taylor Swift's lover," Harry says, and it hurts even though it shouldn't, because it was years ago and they got over it and it doesn't matter now, not in their real life. But just the thought of how many copies of 1989 Harry's green eyes have sold and will continue to sell is enough to make his blood boil.

"You thought it would help."

"Yes, my reputation," Harry bites back, "You tried telling me that it was a bad idea-"

"Yeah, because I was jealous, but it was unfair of me."

"Unfair? Unfair how?"

"Because I have a _girlfriend_ , Harry," Louis cries, louder than he intended, and Harry deflates.

"It's not the same."

"Yes, because Haylor-" he pauses and they both cringe at the word. "The thing with Taylor Swift was a business decision, and she was friends with Ed, so. And it's not like you brought it up. You were forced into it like we've been forced into everything else."

"But I caused it," Harry whispers with trembling voice. “You told me, God –everyone told me to be more careful, to stop with the whisperings and the blatant things during the shows and during interviews, and you wanted me to stop too, wanted for the pressure to ease off a bit, but you’ve always been so bloody gone for me and I kept pushing, you and everyone else around us. I kept thinking, _is that the worst that can happen? Is that the worst they can do?_ ,  and I was such a brat, I didn’t even see how much it was upsetting you, eating at you, because I was so sure I was in the right, that since our closeting was ridiculous and frankly amoral I was justified in doing everything to destroy it. I didn’t even fucking realise what the consequences were. And then there was Taylor.”

Harry’s voice gets even lower, if possible, the alcohol making his speech smoother than it would be otherwise, entirely unfiltered.

“I thought it was just another charade, another inside joke we would have in interviews, like Caroline. It all seemed so ridiculous to me, utterly nonsensical, so outrageously absurd that I didn’t even put up a fight before agreeing, because we couldn’t possibly be hurt by a fake thing. I thought it was cool, even. 'Oh, cool, I get to date the high-end popstar'. I thought it was all pretend, that it wouldn't affect us, that it would be fine because you had Eleanor, right, so I got to have one as well, no? _Have_ , like it was an accessory. I was such a fucking idiot."

He runs a hand through his ridiculous gorgeous floppy hair and sniffs, and what Louis sees is Harry holding a toddler he just renamed in front of a sold out stadium, not Harry struggling to hold hands with a girl. Maybe that's where his fault lies, that he can't get over how much he wants this, this _everything_ with Harry, to question if it's worth doing everything else. The Haylor debacle and the whole period it fell in changed something between them, those months of bargaining and tattoo-getting were the real turning point between swinging it, joking around it, and deciding how truly committed they were one to the other, and bloody Taylor Swift is just a part of their story now. Maybe they'd do it differently now, yeah, but it brought them the ship and the compass and everything _that_ meant.

"There was something in it for me as well, though. You didn't just do it for a kick. You didn't fucking _cheat_ , Harry."

"But you couldn't smile properly for two months, Lou, come on. I'm supposed to be the one who makes you happy," Harry wails, wet and rumbling and cracking at the edges, and Louis' heart breaks.

"Oh, Harry, baby, come here," Louis pleads, stretching an arm and shuffling closer to the end of the bed. Harry, thankfully, links their hands and lets Louis pull him into his chest. "You do make me happy, the happiest man alive, you oversized idiot."

"But I stifle you, Lou," Harry whispers into his neck, straddling and squeezing him, and how ironic. "I'm out there, recommending bloody bumfuckery like I'm a columnist for Cosmopolitan, and you can't even wear a fucking rainbow shirt, Louis, sometimes you can't even raise your eyes from the ground in interviews, how is that _fair_?" and, before Louis can say _it's not fair but it's not on you, it's not you who stifles me_ , he slurs, "I should have just let you be, with Aiden, you were both so confident and in tune and I was all over the place, I couldn't stand you even looking at someone else, why did you let me? Why did you let me get away with being a jealous possessive douche, why did you let me just take everything?"

Oh well. The trip down X Factor lane was unexpected.

Louis shifts a bit, just enough so he can see Harry's face. He tries to remain neutral because Harry's sufficiently upset on his own, but his eyebrows reach straight for his hairline. "What does Aiden have to do with anything? Why are you thinking about the X Factor?"

It was such a long time ago that Louis had problems connecting who Aiden was for a second there, but it may actually be the first time they talked about it in retrospect. There had been a triangle for, like, two days, mostly because Louis had been fascinated by Aiden in a _you're an out gay male of roughly my age_ way, which was like a gentle April shower when Harry was a full on storm and Louis a castaway in the middle of the ocean.

They had both been back to the X Factor studios quite a few times this past week, but Harry had seemed alright, didn't report anything that could justify this kind of meltdown. And the Bandaid 30 thing had been nice, hadn't it? The type of thing that would usually put Harry in a very good mood.

Did something else happen today? Like.

Wait. Oh, fucking wait.

"Is this about the Guardian article?" Louis asks tentatively, and hopes he’s wrong, but Harry lets out a watery sigh that can only mean 'yes'. Oh shit. The bloody journalist who wanted to write a piece about 1D's apparently impending break-up and ended up writing a wattpad Harry fanfiction. "Haz, it was an uninspired pile of bullshit, but who can blame the guy? Some things he wrote are true. Liam's a guard dog, Niall and I don't give a fuck, and Zayn barely speaks when it's a _good_ interview. You're a charmer, and you play the part of the charmer. Me and the lads, we know that. We don't mind it, to be honest. Mostly, we worry it's going to be too much for _you_."

"I know, but it's- fuck, it's so fucked up." Harry shifts away till they're no longer touching and crosses his legs. He's clutching the duvet between his fingers and Louis thinks, idly, _that duvet cost more than my first car_. It is fucked up. "It was supposed to be Liam. It wasn't supposed to be me. You don't choose the closeted kid to be the frontman, it doesn't make sense. Li and you, you write more songs and handle the meetings and all I do is try to please fucking anyone, and all I actually do is make it worst for you."

"If this is about Austria, Haz-"

"It's not about Austria, it's about everything. It’s about everything I’ve been oblivious to this month. How after the shit that went down in Graz I still saw a camera and decided to ask who Niall last had sex with."

"But- but that was bloody good," Louis says in disbelief. "I mean, not so much the Niall part, and really, tone that down, but the interview was cheeky and great. It's what makes you Harry."

"Yeah, it's what makes me beautiful," Harry spits and, okay, Louis should have seen that coming. "Just, I don't want it to be Harry and the Stylettes. I don’t want to be singled out. I don’t want to do anything alone. I most definitely don’t want to _come out_ alone.” He shakes his head, then dives back in to hug Louis again, his arms clasping behind Louis’ neck, and whispers, hot and slurred into his ear, “I want to be with you, always with you, I want to do those things with you, and the lads, but mostly you.”

All Louis can do is hold Harry, and run his hands up and down his back, at a loss. Should he try and reason with him, or simply tuck him into bed and ask about it tomorrow, when he’ll be clear-headed? Or should he lay everything out now, so they will have to discuss it at some point, because this pretending everything is okay is obviously not working for either of them?

The thing is, Louis can’t tell what the point is for Harry. There are so many things he could be upset about, so many different things he mentioned, that he can’t pinpoint what the trigger was. There may not even be one, just so many bad things accumulating that he can’t see all the good underneath them anymore. It’s been a tough couple of weeks. A tough couple of years, really. (but wonderful, too, in the way journeys are wonderful, when you look back at them and realise that even the ugly stuff, the hitches and the waiting and the things that were supposed to go smoothly but didn’t –they all brought you were you are now.)

Before Louis can comfort him, Harry moves back and locks their gazes, watches him with those wet liquid green eyes, his cheeks blotchy and red from the alcohol and the tears. “This is the problem, though. Like, I want to be with you, and that’s somehow the worst thing that could ever happen ever, and everything in the band has been fucked over because of it, because I couldn’t fucking keep it down for the twenty minutes of an interview, and. And then all those terrible things happened, and we can’t even enjoy being on stage anymore because how can you enjoy it when you have to keep your every move in check?” He shudders, his chest heaving, and slides a hand from Louis’ neck to his cheek, thumbing softly at his beard. “And you, what they’ve done to you, Lou.”

Louis closes his eyes, leans into Harry’s touch. He needs to stay still for some time, stay quiet, as uncharacteristic of him as it is. What they’ve done to Louis?

And what about what they’ve done to Harry? How they’ve turned the kindest, sweetest sixteen year old into a heartless, homewrecking, misogynistic, womanising pig with a sex problem? He won Villain of the Year for the last two years, beating _Putin_ , for God’s sake.

Louis remembers the day the pornographic tweet had appeared in Harry’s twitter likes. He remembers him being furious, appalled, ready to tear to shreds anyone who was responsible for it, or for leaving it there and doing nothing for hours.

He remembers him being heartbroken at the comments of some of his supposed fans. _Classic Styles. I’m not even surprised. Poor thing, his finger must have slipped._

Louis’ racist, rude, loved up straight persona seems nothing in comparison.

He contemplates telling Harry that, but Harry doesn’t seem in the right state of mind to handle a discussion of his horrific public image. He tries with a softer tactic, reopening his eyes and cradling Harry’s face in his hands. “We both had to endure things that changed us,” he says, pressing gently on Harry’s jaw so he would meet his gaze. “We both sacrificed something for this.”

Harry opens his mouth, and Louis never wants to interrupt him, ever, but now he keeps talking. This is important. This is crucial.

 “And yeah,” Louis continues, sliding some of Harry’s locks behind his ear. “I may have taken the worst of it at the beginning, but you're doing all this work with Jeff and Irving in LA. You're the one who may solve this whole mess in the end, and not just for me and you, for the lads as well.” He caresses the shell of Harry’s ear, the nape of his neck, his collarbone, hoping that his fingers will keep Harry grounded, prevent his mind from floating away, farther and farther away, till Louis can’t reach it anymore.

"You haven't had a proper break in months. You have the least privacy between all of us. Sometimes you get papped every fucking day. You had to get on a plan straight from you nan's funeral, and walk through a mob scene right after take-off!” He gets more heated without realising it, voice higher and louder, but stops himself when he sees Harry scrunch his eyelids and grimace, his spontaneous reaction when he feels scolded. God, Harry truly sucks at confrontations. He’s such a lovely, exquisite, precious person, and Louis – no, the whole bloody world doesn’t deserve him.

Louis uses a hand to straighten the collar of Harry’s shirt, and adjusts his tone to something mellower as he murmurs, “You can't say this didn't come at a price for you as well, love.”

Harry bites his lips and hastily rubs his eyes as tears pool into them, and each of his quivery breaths rattles his ribcage, and Louis’ heart.

“I know,” Harry mumbles, eyes still covered. “I know. What I’m trying to say is, like.”

He takes one last, big, inhale, and lets his hands fall on the bed. He searches for Louis’ gaze, his pupils blown, with just a tiny rim of forest green around them. “Don’t you ever think about how different everything would be if it weren’t for us two?” he says, and Louis wishes the universe had a mute button he could press.

Slowly, he takes his hands off Harry and crosses his arms in front of his chest, to keep them occupied. To stop the itch to bring them to his ears and cover them, so he doesn’t have to listen to this.

Harry continues, oblivious in his alcoholic daze or not giving a fuck because of it. “Every fucking thing, from our public perceptions, to what our families had to endure, to the Weird Thing We Don’t Talk About between Li and Zayn, which will never even be acknowledged because they’re bloody terrified of ending up like us.”

Liam and Zayn. Louis wants to scream, but he doesn’t. “You know that’s not fair, Harry,” he says, instead, because they have enough things to feel bad and guilty for without including Liam and Zayn. “Their situation is much more complex than that.”

“Okay, but don’t you ever? Ever think that things don’t have to go this way, that we aren’t truly meant to be, there’s no fate or destiny, we’re just Don Quixote against self-built windmills?”

Self-built my fucking _arse_.

“I resent the implication that we’ve brought any of it upon ourselves,” Louis replies, snappy, but he deflates right after. It’s not Harry he should direct his irritation too. Harry only wants… fuck, of course. Harry wants to be reassured. Given how Louis is completely arse over teakettle for him, he can reassure him no problem.

“Shit, Haz, sure I do. Every concert when I can’t look at a part of the stage because you’re there. Every evening when I’m bored out of my mind in this house but won’t go out with mates, because it’s afternoon in LA and you may want to chat. Every time a needle pierces my skin to ink a part of you permanently on my body. I always ask myself if it’s worth it.”

He uncrosses his arms, places his palms on Harry’s knees. “If the tequila hasn’t killed all of your neurons, you can imagine the answer.”

Harry gulps, gaze cast downward, and covers Louis’ hands with his, engulfing it with his giant, warm fingers. “I’m scared shitless, Lou,” he exhales, and it’s the first time since this whole debate started that Louis feels Harry’s telling the full truth.

“Of what?”

“Of coming out,” Harry says, choked, and sags in on himself, his forehead falling forward to lie on his crossed feet, his hands sliding in his hair.

“Oh, love –”

Harry lifts his head before Louis can say anything else. “What if we regret it?” he asks, his chin trembling uncontrollably. “If everything with the band goes to h-hell and it’s our fucking fault,” he sobs and hiccups, “and we resent each other forever for it, and the lads too. If, fuck –” he halts himself, almost slapping himself with a hand in an attempt to dry his cheeks, before carrying on with a wrecked, low voice. “If everything with us goes to hell, and all this fighting has been for nothing.”

Harry chuckles, then, and it’s awful and heart breaking, such a cutting, humourless sound. “Isn’t that what everyone has said from the beginning, even our parents – _but what if you don’t last?_ ”

 _But what if we do?_ , is what Louis always wanted to yell at them and, against all odds, he would have been right.

“They say a lot of bullshit, H, to be honest,” Louis remarks, calmly, measuring every word. “But okay, let’s say, hypothetically – what do we do if any of these very probable scenarios happens?”

He tilts Harry’s chin up with his index, because he has to look him in the eyes as he says this. “We do what sensible people do. We break up, simple as that.”

He watches as Harry shudders at the mere thought of it, and it’s like receiving an adrenaline shot, a wave of pure energy right in his skull.

_But what if we do?_

“Harry, listen to me,” he urges. “I want to be with you forever. I genuinely think I will never change my mind about that. But nothing’s fixed, not for me and definitely not for you. Jesus, you’re twenty, love. If, down the road, we don’t want it anymore, we end it.”

He moves his hands to Harry’s shoulders, jolting him gently back and forth. “But no matter what, even if we cock everything up or just wake up one day and don’t fit anymore, and ever if we regret the way it ends, and maybe hate each other a bit, nothing will ever make me think that this past four years with you weren’t worth it.”

Harry raises his gaze, steadier now, and whispers an, “Okay,” that sounds like a _keep going, please_. So Louis does.

“If we come out – and we don’t have to, not for idealistic purposes and definitely not because our team wants to pull a Sam Smith –, but if we do,” Louis’ mouth curves into an incontrollable smile, “I think you will actually be surprised at how little things will change between us.”

“Okay,” Harry repeats, but a small grin appears on his face as well.

“I’ll still be me,” Louis says. “You’ll still be you. There will just be many coloured pictures of us on your Instagram.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and this time the words melt into a sheepish giggle, and Louis thinks, _we’re good now_.

He still has one last thing to say, though, something they often forget about in their HarryandLouisness.

“But honestly, Haz. As much as it would benefit us as a couple, the first reason why you want to come out is yourself, and that’s amazing, and brave, and makes me want to be as brave as you are.” Harry avoids his eyes at that, and tries to hide his gigantic smile in his own shoulder. “So if we do this, whether we come out together or not, remember that we’re doing it for ourselves, for you Harry Styles and for me Louis Tomlinson, and not for Larry Stylinson or whatever the fans are calling us these days.”

He scoots even closer to Harry on the bed, making their legs touch, and adds, brightly, “Getting to brag about how charming and curly and fit and wonderful my boyfriend is will be just an added bonus.”

“Not actually that curly now,” Harry says as he launches forward and wraps his arms around Louis’ neck. It’s as good of a thank you as any.

Louis hugs Harry back but, instead of leaning toward him, he manoeuvres their tangled bodies until they’re lying on the bed, heads on the pillows. “You’ll always be curly, like, in my heart,” he reassures, staring at Harry and bumping their noses together.

“And I’ll always be in your heart?” Harry asks, snuggling his cheek into the pillow.

“And you’ll always be in my heart, Harry Styles,” Louis answers, echoing the promise he’d made years ago, to Harry and to his millions of twitter followers. “Now, I think it’s time for you to get some rest.”

Harry’s lax figure seems to agree with Louis’ words, but, “No, no, weren’t we supposed to have dinner?” he whines, all pouty lips and batting eyelashes. “Our last dinner in London for a while?”

“It’s still early,” Louis says, checking their alarm clock. “I could move our reservation so you can take a nap before we have to go. How does that sound?”

“Mh-mh,” Harry nods, his eyelids already drifting shut. “Sounds perfect.”

“Let’s get you out of those clothes and under the covers, though, babe.”

Louis strips Harry until he’s only in his pants, tucks him into his half of the bed and drops a kiss to his forehead. Then, he goes downstairs, feeds Bruce and Selina, checks if there’s anything good on the telly, and cancels their reservation.

 


	4. Chapter 4

** 16th \- _Freudian Slip: When You Mean One Thing And Say Your Mother_ **

 

“This looks like something that you might like,” Louis tells him, holding up a book called _Mermaids In Paradise_.

It does sound nice. Harry takes it from Louis’ grasp and opens it to read the summary. He reads a line mentally, but figures there’s no need to. There’s no one but them, Liam, Liam’s mum and an airport shopkeeper in the bookstore, courtesy of Liam making an off-hand comment about a magazine he wanted to read and Gatwick’s industrious staff immediately obliging their every need. He continues reading out loud, making Louis snort. “ _On the grounds of a Caribbean island resort, newlyweds Deb and Chip—our opinionated, skeptical narrator and her cheerful jock husband who's friendly to a fault—meet a marine biologist who says she's sighted mermaids in a coral reef,”_ he recites, and Louis watches him with sparkling eyes.

“Sounds proper awful,” Louis declares, and takes the book and puts it into their _to buy_ pile. He then turns back to the bookshelf, scanning the rest of the novels. “Sorry babe, this place seems lacking in the Bukowski department.”

Harry can’t help putting a hand on the small of Louis’ back, completely transfixed by his profile. With a stack of books in an arm, the glasses he only ever wears when he’s sure no one but their crew will see him and a jumper Harry’s sure wasn’t Louis’ to start with, he makes for the perfect hot librarian fantasy.

“Maybe if you stop searching for it into the fantasy section, boo,” Harry whispers into Louis’ hair, curling his palm on Louis’ side and edging him closer, till their bodies touch.

Louis scoffs, glancing up to look at him from over his glasses. “I’ve tried reading one of them. They definitely belong to the fantasy section.”

Harry can’t say if it’s more Louis’ dry tone or the image of him snuggled up on the couch with _Women_ , scoffing and shaking his head, but he hunches his shoulders and laughs that laugh that makes his nostrils widen. He plants a kiss on Louis’ temple and smashes their cheeks together, jostling Louis’ glasses.

As expected, Louis squeals “Unhand me, you ungainly giant” and  makes an attempt at wiggling out so fake it’s only a few seconds before he just drops his head back on Harry’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Harry prompts with a giggle, squeezing Louis’ hip. “Pick a random book and read me something, Lewis.”

He can almost physically feel Louis’ eye roll, but Louis deposits the books in his arm on a shelf and selects a novel without even watching. “Right, right, wait,” he says with phony exasperation. Harry fights the urge to high-five himself; as much as he’s the exact same with Louis, he loves being reminded he has Louis wrapped around his pinky.

“Here we go.” Louis clears his throat, then continues with his deeper dramatic voice. “ _We rode in silence for a while and I wondered if men were the world's leaves. If as we aged the world_ – no, wait.” Harry leans forward till he can see Louis’ frowning expression. “ _If as we aged the world filled us_ , wait, what?”

“Wait, let me see,” Harry says, hooking his chin on Louis’ shoulder and trying to make out the words on the page, but Louis lets out an _‘oh’_ before he can find the right line.

“No, I’m just an idiot,” Louis whispers, nuzzling against Harry. “It’s a subordinate clause. _If – as we aged – the world filled us with its poisons_.”

“It was better before. I liked it. _We aged the world_ ,” Harry says, letting go of Louis and moving to lean against the bookcase. Louis puts the book back – _Emperor of Thorns_ , Harry notices-, and remains with his elbows on the shelf, his hip cocked in his casual flirty stance, except it’s a casual that almost always leads to something else.

An acapella rendition of _baby look what you’ve done to me_ sets off in Harry’s head as his dick gives the slightest twitch. A 9-hours flight, and they haven’t honoured their membership in the Mile High Club in a while… but, fuck. There’s a reason why they haven’t had sex yesterday, or this morning, and they have to talk about it.

They have to talk about yesterday night.

They should have done it earlier today. It had been Harry’s first thought after he’d woken up and seen the paracetamol and water on the nightstand and realised that it hadn’t just been a dream. And he had been ready to swallow the pills and his own stupidity and breach the subject, he really had. But Louis was hunched down on two enormous suitcases, clothes everywhere, and had looked up at Harry with the cutest overwhelmed little scowl and said, “I packed for both of us, but you don’t get to complain if there’s only the brown hat and not the _maroon_ one.” And Harry had smiled and thought, _not now_.

Louis nudges Harry’s foot with his, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Ageeeeeed the world,” he repeats, slurring the word. “Make it go all wrinkly and grey. That’s a very One Direction sentiment right there.”

“Reckon I should tweet it then?” Harry asks, hand already on his jeans pocket.

“Oh, go ahead,” Louis chuckles, his eyes tracing Harry’s movements as he pulls out the phone and opens twitter. Harry may be preening just a bit under Louis’ intent stare. “Honestly, I pity the poor souls that are still trying to make sense of your social medias.”

“Done,” Harry announces after he publishes the tweet, and closes the app. He’s always baffled by the new ways the fans interpret his tweets and Instagram pics (and come on, some of them are so _obvious_ , why don’t they get it?) but, as long as what they get from it is that he’s with Louis, he’s not about to contradict them. “Ready to go?”

Louis nods, grabbing their chosen books and hugging them to his chest. They both glance to where Liam and Karen are paying, and Harry is relieved to see that Liam seems less tense than before, when it had become clear that Zayn wasn’t going to make it. And oh, Liam and Zayn. Flashbacks of his conversation with Louis yesterday submerge Harry’s head, fast and violent enough to leave him dry-mouthed and breathless.

_I always ask myself if it’s worth it._

“C’mon,” Louis elbows him and hops forward. “Let’s pay for these and go make out till someone tells us off.”

Harry just watches fondly as Louis skips toward the cashier, his bum bouncing with every step, and thinks, _not now_.

 

*

 

If there is one skill they have perfected in the last years, it’s how to fit into a single first class seat. It had taken some trial and error and more than one disapproving look from various flight attendants, but they are masters now. It’s even almost comfortable. They could give spooning classes.

“You awake babe?” Louis mumbles into his neck, squishing his nose on Harry’s skin. Their hands and legs are all tangled up, their feet lazily caressing each other. They’ve both been drifting on and off for a couple hours now, in that not-quite-sleep typical of planes, the one that makes you sluggish without offering any true rest.

To be honest, if Harry was asked when the last time he had felt truly rested was, he’d probably answer 2010.

He lets out a low throaty noise and squeezes Louis’ hands as an answer, his eyes still shut. There’s no chance he’s going to fall asleep any time soon. His ears hurt from listening to his ipod for too long, and the fake silence of planes is unnerving, with its endless buzzing of engines and air conditioning and people moving.

“Mh. Is your back okay?” Louis slips a hand out of Harry’s grasp and trails it on the dip of his waist, thumbing circles in his skin. “Do you want to move?”

Harry smiles as a reflex, a movement he couldn’t fight even if he wanted to, and wiggles his hips against Louis’ body, hoping it conveys that him and his bum are quite content where they are, thank you very much.

“ _Okay_ then,” Louis says, his voice just a tad sharper than before. He slides his fingers under Harry’s shirt, pressing the tips against his hipbones, where the muscles bulge and dip. That, and the image of Louis clasping the golden suspender on him and just watching, then falling to his knees and having to kiss him all over – it makes him quiver, chills flooding him like circles in water. “Shit, if only you would stop wearing bloody jeans,” Louis complains as he tries to pry Harry’s jeans button open, and Harry can feel the blood leaving his brain and rush down. They are under a blanket, the lights are out, they are very much hidden from anyone’s sight. Harry can let Louis get him off in a semi public setting. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time.

At least, that’s what Harry tells himself when he puts a hand on Louis’ to help him out. The offending button gives up under their joint effort, and Louis drags the zip down tooth by tooth, pushing against him. Harry’s toes curl and his lips fall open like petals under sunlight.

“Can I-“ Louis stutters, plastering his crotch against Harry’s arse -and he’s half-hard already, fuck- and finally palming Harry’s cock. Harry can feel himself starting to thicken properly, and it’s all so hot and good and amazing and overwhelming, and of fucking course a tiny voice in his head tells him, _now_.

“Can we talk about last night?” he blurts out in a loud whisper, and Louis’ hand on him stills.

He knows Louis is pulling a face now, and soon enough he feels teeth on his neck, Louis nibbling at his skin and chuckling softly. “Way to kill the mood, babe.”

He takes the hand out of Harry’s trousers, and Harry has to bite the inside of his cheek not to whine loudly. There really should be a line between being a bit of a masochist in bed and being a bloody idiot.

Fingertips tapping on Harry’s tummy, Louis continues. “Of course we can. Turn around, I want to see you.”

It’s not as easy as it sounds, rolling over without sending Louis flying into the isle, but with a bit of body tetris Harry plops down on the seat facing Louis, noses almost brushing. Louis has a super pretty nose, a _Michelangelo spent days sculpting its geometrically perfect and unfairly endearing curvature with a miniature chisel from a block of tanned marble_ nose, but Harry has a Serious Speech to make and should stop getting distracted by Louis’ various body appendages.

He clears his throat, fidgets with the blanket to keep his hands occupied. “I’m sorry we had to skip dinner.”

“I don’t give a fuck about dinner, Hazza,” Louis retorts immediately, so soft and sweet that Harry almost believes him.

Louis is right, of course. Coming out wouldn’t change much about their lives, mostly because anything they can’t do now is because of their status more than their closeting. It’d be less emotionally draining and anxiety inducing, but their job per se is emotionally draining and anxiety inducing. He can handle not speaking to Louis for ninety minutes every two nights on tour.

It’s just that Harry doesn’t remember a time in which he wasn’t out.

There must have been, but it feels like his mum and Gemma has always known about his sexuality, and so all the important people in his life. His _thing_ with Louis during the X Factor had been so blatant and overpowering that even the lads hadn’t taken much time to catch up, and he and Louis haven’t truly mastered the art of subtlety in the ensuing years.

He is closeted, obviously, but in a way he’s also not. He never had to pretend outside of the public eye, and the picture magazines and tabloids paint of him is so detached from the truth that there’s no blurring. He’d love for it to change, but he’s made his peace with it. It is what it is.

It’s different for Louis. Louis has never been out. He had to move from Hannah to Eleanor and lie to his siblings and grandparents for years, and have everything that minimally deviated from his straight image literally trained out of him. Harry sometimes imagines him locking himself into his closet just so he can be left alone.

“I feel like –“ Harry wets his lips, like it could make speaking any easier. It doesn’t. “I know there has been some wonderful things this year for you. But I fear that, um. I don’t want you to keep the bad things all bottled up, pretend they aren’t happening, and end up with them eating at you. I mean, the Rovers’ deal, having to be so guarded on stage, Lottie’s anger, me having to fly back early from the Bahamas, and everything else. We don’t talk about those things anymore, and we don’t have to if you don’t want to. But if you want to, and are just trying to be, like, tough and pretend everything is solved? And if I do something that hurts you or irritates you, as well. You not telling me… I, um, I don’t like it.” He shuts his eyes, urges his voice to come out steadier. “I don’t want it. So that’s, like, that’s what yesterday was about. I can do this with the not speaking to you in public and the beards and the meetings and the not knowing when it’s going to end, but I can’t do it if you hide from me.”

He feels Louis’ thumbs on his temples, gently prying his eyes open, and he complies, his gaze refocusing on Louis’ peaceful smile. “I’m right here,” Louis whispers like it’s a secret, and pushes their mouths together, barely open. “How much do you remember from yesterday?”

“Most of it, I guess?”

“I meant it all, okay? And, ugh.” Louis dives his head into Harry’s neck, the grimace evident in his voice. “You can ask. Anything you want. Even if you’re afraid it will annoy me or make me sad. I like it when you worry about me, even if I act like a moody, prickly shit.”

Harry circles him with an arm around his back, drags him closer till their bodies align again, Louis’ moist breath sending hot waves from Harry’s skin to his stomach. “You can be a moody, prickly shit,” he says sombrely, but his amusement is hardly hidden. His palm shifting from Louis’ spine to his bum may also have something to do with it.

“Well, you can be a self-centric broodfest, if we’re being honest,” Louis says just to be contrary, right as he wiggles his wonderful arse back into Harry’s hold. There’s just – so _much_ of it, and Harry is a weak, weak human being.

He kneads into it like he would a ball of dough, soft but meticulous. He would know, he used to be a baker. “A prickle and a broodfest. What a pair we make.”

A prickle and… there’s an image forming in his mind, his eyes widening and his eyebrows rising. “Oh,” he says. “They do call us _the hedgehog and the frog_.”

“They call us _what_?” Louis exclaims, half-chuckling, turning Harry’s chin toward him with a finger. At that point, it’s only natural for Harry to get closer and kiss him a bit before answering.

“Apparently we look like them,” he explains, noses brushing together. “You’re a cute indignant hedgehog and I’m a majestic colourful toad.”

“Hey, why do you get to be majestic and I’m stuck with _cute_?” Louis says with a pout that definitely doesn’t discredit the cute and indignant pet theory. Harry gives him a peck on the corner of his sulky mouth.

“You can be as majestic as you want, pumpkin.”

“Oh, whatever.” He rolls his eyes, but soon enough a little naughty grin curves his lips up. “Wait. Does that mean you’ll turn into a prince if I kiss you?”

Harry leans in with a grin of his own. “Might as well try.”

 

 

** 17th – The people who get off airplanes first **

 

Orlando is – messy. It’s the worst parts of tour and the worst parts of promo season all mixed together. It’s a 48 hours long marathon that, so far, has promoted the band’s break up rumours more than their album. It’s also bound to give them all pneumonia because, despite popular belief, Florida is not so much of a sunshine state in November.

Two good things

  1. Zayn’s flight landed some time ago, and he’s on his way here
  2. Louis and Niall rushed to meet him, thus didn’t have time to change out of their Harry Potter outfits. God bless televised fan meetings



“Fucking tie,” Louis grumbles, loosening the red and gold knot on his neck. He’s in full Hogwarts student attire, hair fluffy and begging for fingers to be run through it, and he seems knackered. It’s the dead of night for their bodies and Louis always has troubles with jet lag the first few days. 

“Gryffindor, Tommo?” Liam asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Mh,” Louis nods. “Apparently, it’s the most likable house.”

“And you look proper dashing in it, mate.” Niall puts his hands on Louis’ shoulders, giving him an affectionate squeeze. He’s wearing a Honeydukes uniform, with the hat and everything, and he’s as excited as Louis is grumpy.

Louis throws a hand behind him to pat at Niall, without any real aim. “Cheers, Nialler. You don’t look so bad yourself.” He yawns and stretches and, while Niall joins Liam on a couch, he finally shuffles toward Harry.

“Hi, love,” Louis greets him, ruffling his hair and bending down for a quick peck on the lips, before plopping down beside him. “What is Zayn’s ETA?” he asks then to the room at large, his hand sliding into Harry’s.

Harry doesn’t even try to keep the corners of his mouth from going up.

“Um,” Liam checks his phone. “Five minutes tops, I think.”

“Has anyone talked to him? He tried calling me but I was still filming,” Louis says.

“Yeah, yeah, me and Harry did,” Liam answers. “He said he took antibiotics yesterday and he will sing tomorrow. He didn’t sound too bad, did he, Harry?”

He sounded like someone who was being force-fed quinolones and shipped across the ocean like a postal package. “He seemed okay. Said he slept a lot on the plane.”

Louis snorts, playing with Harry’s fingers with jittery movements. “He still shouldn’t be here, it’s mental. He was feeling like bloody death warmed over not a day ago.”

“We can’t film a one-hour special for the telly with one less member, Louis,” Liam comments weakly, but he doesn’t look convinced either. He’s right, of course. They can’t do it without Zayn. It’s just their team’s solution that’s a bit… iffy.

“How often do we have this conversation, lads? Every month, every fortnight?” Niall intercepts, twisting the hat now in his hands, his cheeks red and flushed. Niall doesn’t like when things don’t go the way he wishes them to. “And it’s going to stay like this for a while, I guess. Unless you guys…?” He looks back and forth from Louis to Harry, his blue eyes full of his Niall optimism.

Harry clears his throat and speaks up, Louis grounding him a thumb on his palm. “Irving wants to have dinner with me and Louis.”

“Something about the band? Or about you?” Liam asks carefully. He’s trying to be sensitive, but Harry knows anything involving Irving is a Big Deal for all of them. He’s glad it is.

(‘About you’. A nice euphemism for ‘about your next round of publicised heterosexuality’. The thing is, Liam’s not even wrong.)

“About me, but, like. I think – we think we should set up a meeting, something, um, official? With all of us, since we’re all here. I know there’s, like, a ton of stuff going on. And our mind is made, Irving’s as well, and we just have to wait some things out, but. Maybe if we all, in person, sit down in a room with him and his people, we could speed up some processes? Be more clear about what we want to be changed as soon as possible, and what things can wait?”

“Sure, brilliant,” Liam replies easily, while Niall throws him a “Good speech, Hershel.”

Harry lets out a huff at Niall’s affectionate mocking, but he’s always genuinely jumpy when they have to talk about those kinds of things, those serious band things. He had reached out to the infamous Poison Dwarf on a whim, due to a chance meeting with a mutual acquaintance, and, after talking to him for maybe half an hour, he’d been absolutely sold. It had taken a lot more to bring the others on board, especially Louis. Louis is still not completely convinced, he doesn’t say it openly but it’s obvious. It’s also useful to counteract Harry’s excessive trust.

After the initial resistance, the other lads had been all for a revolution in their brand, and they all want to keep going for a few more years or, at least, have something good to come back to if they do decide to take a break. It was still Harry’s idea, though, and he wasn’t delicate about it; after years in the industry, he had mounted a proper consensus-seeking attack on his bandmates. Arguably, their dear friend Larry has also been one of the most prominent causes of the bad blood between them and their managers and publicists. Even if they all had many more reasons that justified a team change, their health status being one of the most prominent, it was still a lot of careful treading and obnoxious meetings with suits and lawyers calling them from other time zones, all planned by Harry to fight something he himself had contribute to cause.

Feeling he has the future of a millionaire empire pending on his shoulders is a lot for a twenty years old kid who doesn’t reach 12 stones.

Before Harry realises the room has fallen in a silence that he’s supposed to fill, Louis interjects. “So yeah, we should maybe brainstorm a bit today, and mull it over in the next few days.”

Harry nods, bringing Louis’ hand further into his lap, grateful. Niall and Liam also agree, respectively with a ‘Brilliant’ and a ‘As long as it doesn’t overwhelm Zayn too much’.

Just then, Liam’s phone goes off with an obnoxiously loud vibration. “It’s Zayn,” he informs them, reading from it. “He says to go meet him directly in his room.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Louis whines half-heartedly, stomping a foot. “This damned thing itches so much, can I go change?”

“Nope, Tommo, sorry,” Liam says, not sorry at all, actually rather ecstatic, phone still in hand. “Zayn’s here. We have to move.” He stands up and sprints out of the door with the skip in his step he gets before a big gig, or a studio session with someone he admires, or a date with Sophia.

Harry just shakes his head and brings his fussy Louis up with him, leaning against his side and murmuring in his ear, “I have plans for the outfit, dear. I think you’ve been a very naughty student this semester, Mr Tomlinson. I’m afraid I will have to fail you. Unless…”

(“Oh my God – twenty minutes without hearing about your sex life, lads, that’s all I ask, twenty minutes, worst bandmates in the world,” Niall can be heard mumbling, hands thrown in the air, as he passes them and follows Liam. Neither Louis nor Harry really pay attention.)

 

 

** 18th – Cause I move a little slow when I dance **

 

“You look-” Louis giggles, his whole figure shuddering with it, his thumbs tracing the corner of Harry’s lips. And when did Louis grow those three extra fingers? It’s okay, though. Harry could do with some more fingers. He could do many, like , lots of things with more fingers. They are so _long_. And not the only long thing about Louis either.

“Technically, I mean. You do look a bit a frog,” he slurs, tugging until Harry’s grin widens. “Only I don’t want to put my dick into frogs,” he clarifies, wide-eyed, and frowns. Louis is really very pretty when he frowns.

“You’re really very pretty.”

Louis chuckles some more, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you, Harold. Is it okay if I want to put my dick in you?”

Harry is super not sober, and should have said no to that spliff. Or that tequila shot. Or the other six. But Louis wanted him to lick the salt from the dip of his collarbones. He couldn’t say no. it would have been rude. Harry isn’t rude. Harry is very well behaved. Louis’ collarbones are also really very pretty.

That said, he can still tell that having this conversation in a room full of people, even if those people are their bandmates and band mates –like, the band members, the ones that play the instruments. But also Niall plays an instrument? Oh God, what if Niall wants to leave the band to join the Band? Maybe he finds their lack of orchestral talent unnerving.

Harry dares a look in Niall’s direction. He’s trying to catch the vodka gummy bears Zayn is throwing at his open mouth, laughing manically. He doesn’t look unnerved.

Still. Whatever. They can’t have this conversation here. They already got away with Louis straddling Harry’s thighs, which is something they would get yelled at for even attempting sober. Louis changed into joggers somewhere between the party and the afterparty and the after-afterparty, the joggers that would make an erection look as inconspicuous as the stretched arms of Christ the Redeemer. Oh, fuck, Harry just compared a religious emblem to a stiffy. He’s a blasphemous. He’s going to hell. Harry wouldn’t do well in hell, his skin suffers in dry climates.

“You can put you dick wherever you want, pumpkin,” Harry says, his hands sliding underneath Louis’ arse and squeezing it. “But-”

“Here.” Louis nudges Harry’s bottom lip open with his index, and Harry’s quick to let him slide it in. “I want your mouth, babe,” he says, faltering when Harry hollows his cheeks and sucks on the digit, taking it in until his lips nudge the knuckle.

When he feels Louis rocking his hips against his crotch in the tiniest back and forth, the one Louis does without even noticing, Harry stops him by holding his sides, and gives a gentle nibble to the finger. Louis takes it out with a dizzy pout and wipes it on Harry’s shirt. He might have done it to annoy him, but Harry’s rather honoured to have Louis’ spit on any part of him.

_(I’d much rather have your pee than his pee)_

 “You can’t do it in here, Lou,” Harry warns, as warning as someone that only wants to be bent over can sound. “We have to go to, like, our room. We have to relocate. I’ll carry you.”

To prove his point, he tries to stand up with all of Louis’ dead weight on him, but Louis puts both his palms on his chest and pushes him back against the couch.

“No,” Louis whines, rubbing his palms on Harry’s pecs. “Want to stay some more.” He shimmies off Harry’s lap, plopping down beside him and instantly moulding their sides together when Harry throws an arm around his shoulders. “’S nice, innit?”

They both take the room in, all these people they spend months on end with, who’ve shared with them long nights and early mornings and that show you just didn’t want to play, and the one you wanted to play so much you could have barfed. The note you couldn’t hit properly and the song you wanted to sing all by yourself because it was so good, the refrain that didn’t want to come together and the verse that couldn’t have been written any other way. When you’re too tired or too sick or too scared and you need to fit on a three seats couch with other four bodies for your breath to catch, and when you’re on top of the fucking world and you want to share the view with someone.

Harry nods, and knows that Louis is thinking the same thing.

“Sometimes I forget how nice it is,” Louis says, one hand absent-mindedly fondling Harry’s thigh. “But it is amazing, right? The album. The fans. Us, the lads.” He buries his head deeper into Harry’s shoulder, voice slightly muffled. “It’s just so bad sometimes. So wearing, always the same. Same old shit but a different day, ah. But it’s so good, Hazza.” The hand on Harry’s leg gets a bit firmer, more insistent, sliding higher and higher. They need to leave, and _soon_. “Our album is so good. Have you listened to it?”

“Yes,” Harry answers diligently, bringing Louis a little closer and dropping a kiss on his hair. “I have listened to our album that I co-wrote and sang on.”

Louis retaliates with a swift and just a tad off mark squeeze to Harry’s crotch, which only serves to make him go from _mildly interested but also chilling_ hard to _only needs a breeze in the right direction_ hard. Harry yelps anyway, and Louis shrugs, because, like people can be sad drunks or horny drunks, he’s an asshole drunk. “’s what you get for being a smartarse. You arse. I meant properly, all of it from start to finish, for fun.”

“Uh-”

Before Harry can elaborate his response (yes, he puts it on in the car sometimes, but it’s weird to listen to your own music, but it’s also fucking good, and he may or may not have a cd with only compilations of Louis’ solos), a wild Julian launches himself on the spot right next to him.

“Guys,” he announces, opening his arms wide. “Gentlemen. As the kids would say, larents. In this evening of libations and celebrations, I want to tell you that I love you, and you are pretty cool for being five jerks in a boyband.”

“Thank you, Julian,” Harry says as the same time as Louis’, “You’re pretty cool too for someone who sports a Big Lebowski haircut unironically.”

Julian beams at Louis like that’s the best thing he’s ever been told. “Tommo,” he exhales, reverently, and then to Harry, “See? Louis is a genius. Makes everything sound like a good idea. Remember that time he wrote about liking jizz? Not my cup of tea, of course. Because I don’t dig dudes. But if I did dig dudes, I mean, I think I’d appreciate that. Do you appreciate it, Harry? God, you two are so cute. I think you should date.”

Julian drops his head on the cushions and snuggles into them, pointing from Louis to Harry and back to Louis with one or four fingers.

“I think it’s a splendid idea,” Harry says, turning toward Louis and not even completely mocking. Honestly, if there was a way to date Louis more than he is already, he’d do it. “What do you reckon, love?”

“I reckon we have like twenty minutes before Little Louis closes shop for the night, so we should hurry.” Louis smiles dreamily by himself, his hand still patting the area surrounding Harry’s groin. He’s in the stage of drunkness where you either fall asleep, drink more or sober up, but Harry can already see his movements getting steadier, his speech sharper.

“That’s -” Julian starts, nodding at them, “I mean, I hope I forget I heard that tomorrow. But, you know, good for you.” He shuts his eyes closed and keeps mumbling until the words morph into snores.

“Is he sleeping?” Louis asks with a giggle, reaching over Harry and pressing a finger into Julian’s cheek.

Harry takes Louis into his arms and settles him back down on his lap, helping him with a hand behind his thigh while he plants kisses on his jaw and neck. “Let him be, Lou.”

“Mh-mh,” he whimpers low in his throat, and his voice comes out that blend of shrill and raspy that makes Harry’s toes curl. “Wasn’t kidding before, y’know?”

“About what? Closing shop?” Harry chuckling, palming Louis’ through his sweats, and his shop is, like, wide open and throwing a party. It doesn’t stop Harry from putting on a shit-eating grin and singsonging, “Does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes?”

 Louis snorts loudly, his hands coming up and grabbing fistfuls of Harry’s hair. “Speaking of things changing, want to find out if I’m still your favourite ride at Universal?” he says, driving his cock against Harry’s, thorough and purposeful and making Harry’s mouth fall open.

Standing up is trickier than expected, Harry severely underestimating his coordination or Louis’ helpfulness, but through strenuous teamwork they both assume an upright position and stumble out of the lounge, arms thrown around the other, sides close. They make a brief stop at the door, steadying themselves against a wall and giggling into each other neck, Louis yelling an excited “Goodnight, wankers!” and Harry trying to shush him with a finger and almost sticking it into one of Louis’ super amazing blue eyes.

They get some ‘goodnights’ in return, from everyone who’s not passed out or too focused on the game of beer pong taking place in the middle of the room, and Harry makes a self note to send a tip to whoever will have to clean up the mess tomorrow. Not that he’ll actually remember. But may he’ll remember that there’s something he forgot that he should remember. Or something.

At Harry’s hesitation, Louis starts tugging on his sleeve and trying to bodily move him, and Harry complies, because he likes this shirt. And also because Louis wants to take him to _bed_. Harry is a big fan of that plan.

The insides of hotels are all the fucking same, with the bloody carpeting straight out of Shining, and Louis pushes the wrong button on the lift twice, and at the second stop they get out before realising it’s not their actual floor and have to wait for another one, but they get to their room. They get to their wonderfully suite with a wonderful view and a wonderful gigantic mirror and a wonderful bed in front of said mirror, and they are really not in the shape for having proper _anything_ – Harry somehow cocks up a blowie, and uh, he has to tell Louis-

“Lou, I cocked up sucking your cock,” Harry chuckles, clearing his throat loudly and dropping a kiss to the head of Louis’ cock. Louis just wipes the wetness from under Harry’s eyes with his thumb and motions him upwards, until their bodies are aligned and they can chase their orgasms with shaky thrusts and unsteady hands around each other. They come weakly, almost at the same time, and it’s not stellar or novel worthy and there will be no Stockholm Syndromes written for it, but it’s everything.

When Louis pushes Harry to make him roll around, his hands still sticky with lube and come, and he clings to Harry’s back like a fluffy naked koala, and he carefully moves Harry’s hair out of the way and whispers ‘Best job in the fucking world’ in his ear – it’s everything.  

 

 

** 19th – Pep Talk **

 

The setting for the perfect bath must be organised meticulously. It takes scented oils, fluffy towels. The perfect ratio of temperature between the water and the outside. Soothing background music –the kind that washes over you without eliciting neither positive nor negative memories, nothing that could get you to think. A couple candles if you truly want to go overboard (but there’s no need to here, in LA, because it already smells like home).

“Haaaaaaazzzaaaaaaa.”

The most important thing, though, is quiet. Fucking peace and _quiet_.

“Darliiiiiing,” Louis calls, for the fifth or hundredth time in the precisely thirteen minutes since Harry entered the bath.

Half an hour, that’s all Harry wants. He loves, loves, loves Louis and his family, but he needs thirty minutes of No Tomlinson Zone. This house is several hundreds of metres squared, and they just got here maybe three hours ago, and yet they are everywhere.

As it is, the absolute peskier Tomlinson appears on the doorway of the bathroom. “Can I put my socks with your socks, or do we have two separate drawers? I think you said something last time, but to be honest I wasn’t listening,” Louis says, taking a couple of steps in. He’s holding a bunch of cashmere socks that Harry would bet are not in his size.

Gone are the times in which Harry had to force him to wear them. Now he’s gotten used to some mysteriously disappearing and re-emerging months later from inside a pair of abandoned vans.

“Do as you please, babe,” he says with calculated detachment and closes his eyes. If you don’t pay attention to Louis, he usually gets bored rather fast.

“But do I have to put them in an order? Colour, weight? Length? Or brand maybe?”

Or get more persistent.

Harry sinks further into the water, his mouth barely outside. “Leave them on the bed and I’ll take care of it.”

When he hears the first sound coming out of Louis’ lips, he sinks down completely, lets the world become a slippery cloud of faint echoes. It’s scalding, and a bit uncomfortable, and bloody _quiet_.

He holds his breath for as long as he can, ignores the muffled sounds in the room and the shifting of the lights behind his closed lids, but at least he isn’t surprised when he comes up and finds Louis towering over him.

“Louis,” Harry coughs, and rubs his eyes. His fingertips are starting to prune, and he doesn’t feel any more relaxed than an hour ago, which was very not relaxed.

Louis takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, unperturbed even when a damp stain spreads on his jeggings. “Harry.”

He’s staring at him with this _I’m being a pain but actually talk to me_ look and it’s not _nice_ , because Harry doesn’t want to talk. He wants quiet. He wants to drown in his own head for a while. “Alright,” he says, sticking a hand out and placing it on Louis’ knee. “Either you get in,” he squeezes the knee, letting the water seep through, “or get out.”

“Nope,” Louis says, idly, as he stands up and walks to the cabinet. He opens its door, face disappearing behind it. “D’you reckon Irving likes pink?”

Mh. Browsing nail polishes, then. “I don’t reckon Irving gives a fuck about my manicure.”

He may do, actually, but not tonight. They have business stuff to discuss tonight.

“Ballerina pink it is, then.” Louis pushes the flap closed and reclaims his seat on the bathtub, triumphantly holding the tiny bottle. Ballerina _is_ a lovely shade. “Wanna give me a hand, love?” he asks, patting his thigh.

“No,” Harry sulks, but puts his hand where Louis wants him to. Quite simply, a busy Louis is an easier Louis to handle. Plus, getting your nails done is fucking amazing. Harry likes the whole concept of nail polish, the smoothness and the colours and picking it off when he’s tense, but there’s nothing like someone taking your hand and putting it on for you.

Louis sighs, grasps Harry’s hand as if he’s afraid he’ll break it, fingertips dragging on its back. “I can leave, if you want me to.”

As if. Harry can count of one hand the times in which one of them had asked the other to leave in the last four years, and in none of Harry’s he’d ever actually wanted Louis to go. They’re both quite good at respecting the other’s spaces, despite Louis’ constant craving for attention and Harry’s desire to please him no matter what. It means there’s a purpose to Louis’ presence now. “You can stay. But no talking.”

Louis mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key, which gets an unintentional cackle out of Harry, then carefully places Harry’s thumb on his tight and opens the bottle of nail polish.

“You should probably put a cloth under my hand, in case you drip some,” Harry says. He observes with gusto as Louis fish-mouths with an increasingly piqued expression. But he hates to lose more than he loves contradicting Harry, even if it’s only a no talking game.

Louis resolves by shaking his head with a sigh and focusing on applying the first coat. He stays perfectly inside the borders, the layer homogeneous and not too thick but not too thin. He’s enchanting to watch.  His eyelashes cast the tiniest of shadows on his cheekbones, making them seem even longer, and he moves with practised ease and rituality, the sign of someone who’s done it tens of times on four expectant girls for years, adamant not to ever disappoint them.

He finishes the first coat disappointingly fast, lifting Harry’s hand from his leg and placing it carefully on a dry spot of the bathtub, before making grabby hands for the other one. Still hellbent on the no talking, uh.

He’s trying to make Harry cave, with the gentle thumbing on Harry’s knuckles and adorably blowing on each nail after painting it and generally being too bloody cute for Harry to think straight.

Harry clenches his lids shut, figuring that, if he doesn’t see Louis, he’ll be fine. And, like, he truly doesn’t want to talk. What would they even talk about? Nothing, absolutely nothing that Harry can think of. No topic at all.

Louis finishes with Harry’s left hand as well, leaving it to dry on his incredibly solid, firm tight. It’s a bit uncomfortable, with Harry’s arm resting across his chest, so he can’t be blamed for giving a light squeeze to Louis’ leg. He’s just trying not to let it slip in the water, honestly.

In a moment of pure evilness, Louis raises Harry’s right and resumes blowing it dry, one puff of hot breath on each nail and back again, all the while taking sharp and loud intakes of breath before every exhale. At the third blow on his ring finger, Harry snaps.

“Okay, okay, you can talk,” he says and, when he opens his eyes, he finds Louis with a barely concealed grin on his lips.

“I think it’s time for a second coat,” Louis announces, placid and collected, laying Harry’s right hand down on his other knee and reaching for the nail polish. Harry feels like his heart might explode, or melt in the hot water.

Louis paints his thumb. His index. His middle. His ring finger. Then, “You,” he says without lifting his eyes from Harry’s pinky, “are nervous.”

And it’s great, very reassuring and lovely, when your significant other can read you, but it’d also be appreciated if he could learn when not to abuse of this skill.

Harry’s nervous. Louis’ family has invaded their house. There are tiny humans toddling around their not baby proofed property. The two of them have a dinner with Irving tonight. Louis has to be seen with Eleanor tomorrow. Their bloody fridge is still making that whooping noise all the time.

Harry’s nervous. He’d be an idiot not to. Harry’s also a bit of an idiot. A nervous idiot.

“It’s a model,” he blurts, because he can’t hold it in anymore, and also did he mention that he’s an idiot? “She, I mean. The reason why Irving wants to meet us. A blond, um. Blond and leggy. A blond and leggy model.”

Louis drags the tiny brush on the nail, then fucking blows on it. “I know,” he says then, with less emotion than when he was asking about socks.

“You… know?”

“Nadine Leopold,” Louis continues, still not making eye contact. “You follow her on Instagram.”

He does?

“I do?” Harry asks with a frown, and brings his hand out of Louis’ grasp and on his chin, lifting it, his thumb stroking Louis’ jaw. “And…”

“Well, it’s not _ideal_ ,” Louis says sharply, leaning into Harry’s touch. “But you don’t have to be nervous about telling me. It’s not your choice. I’m just glad I can come tonight.” He circles Harry’s wrist and slowly pushes it away. “Careful not to smudge the nail polish. I still have to finish the other hand.”

He does just that, applying the second coat on Harry’s left hand. He’s as precise as before, but his mind is somewhere else, and Harry doesn’t know where to look for it. That’s what Harry was afraid of, Louis closing off again and the news bursting their _big happy family_ bubble. A useless, wounding reality check.

“Whose idea was it?” Louis asks out of the blue, neck a bit flushed, as if it was something embarrassing to ask.

What idea, though? Fake-dating someone? Louis knows the answer to that. Choosing Nadine specifically? Well, it’s not like Harry spends his evenings browsing modelling catalogues, hunting for his next PR stunt. Then what?

“What do you mean?”

Louis blows on the last nail, and gives the hand a squeeze before letting it there to dry. He trains his gaze on Harry’s, and he looks like a feline that has seen the poacher and is about to run away. “For me to come tonight.”

Oh God, _that_. Harry almost hits his head against the bathtub as he sags down in relief.

“No one’s,” he answers with as much emphasis as he can muster, sitting straighter and staring into Louis’ eyes. “We didn’t even need to discuss it. I want our public images to be linked as soon as possible. Irv wants the same things. Anything that concerns my, um, public love life concerns you as well.”

Harry knows Louis still hasn’t decided if he can trust Irving, if he and his empire are the answer to their marketing problem or if they’ll be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Harry wants him to feel included in everything, even the PR stunts that are Harry’s alone, both because anything that gets Harry Styles from 1D in the press affects the whole band, and because anything that Harry has to do in his supposedly free time affects Louis’ life as well, same as any stunt with Eleanor affects Harry’s. But what if… Harry frowns, distractedly biting his lip. “Unless you don’t want to come...?”

“Of course I want to come,” Louis says, and he looks relieved but deflated, sitting with his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed in his lap. “Actually, can I – like, you said before… can I get in the bath with you?”

“Fuck yeah,” Harry cries. “Please do.”

Louis lets out a gigantic sigh and gets to his feet, shimming out of his clothes as fast as he can. Harry watches, captivated, as Louis’ tight are bared, meaty and defined, and all of Louis’ legs down to his delicate ankles, and Harry never would have imagined he’d be obsessed with a man’s malleoli. His pretty feet, exposed as Louis tosses on the floor the socks he was wearing. His smooth hips dipping into his slim waistline, and his perfect nipples, slightly hardened by the sudden cold, and his arms, such bulging, chiselled arms for someone so small. 

It’s a lovely view. Harry’s only saddened that, when Louis pushes his boxers down, there’s no polite way to ask him to turn around and let Harry take a peek at his arse.

Louis climbs into the bathtub and settles down between Harry’s legs, snuggling into his chest, one hand open over his heart.

 “Every time I think I’m getting used to it, but I’m not,” Louis whispers into his skin, and it’s like his hand had dug a hole into him, reached his heart and squeezed.

“It’s fine,” Harry says with a dry throat. “I don’t think you can get used to it. I mean, I’m not used to it, and I’ve had to deal with the same innocuous and actually rather nice person for the last three years.”

He brings a hand to Louis’ hair, careful not to ruin his nails, and murmurs, “I don’t want you to get used to it. I hope you never do.”

Louis’ only reply is a kiss on his neck.

They remain silent, motionless, holding each other close in a Jacuzzi that fits at least four. Harry’s hyperaware of his breathing pattern, of Louis’, of how they follow one another like a canon until they don’t anymore, falling in perfect synchrony.

“When do we have to get out?” Louis asks after a while, his finger drawing circles around one of Harry’s nipples.

“I think we have at least another twenty minutes. Maybe more.” They only need to put on some posh clothes and leave twenty minutes before they are due to meet Irving, unless Louis’ family needs something else. “What is your family doing tonight? Do we have to do anything for them before we leave?”

Louis snorts and raises his eyes to look at him. “Oh no. Julia’s going absolute bonkers and she needs no encouragement. I told her to make sure they were fed and she hired a Japanese chef. A Japanese chef who has apparently agreed to prepare special Japanese baby food for the little ones.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” Harry coos. “I’ll have to ask Jay to take pictures. And come on, Julia’s a bit thrilled she’s no longer housekeeping a ghost house.”

“I know. I saw her smile at least twice today. It’s unsettling.”

“Let her have her fun,” Harry says, gently tilting Louis’ chin up for a kiss.

“Careful with the Ballerina pink,” Louis mutters against Harry’s mouth, giving it countless pecks but never pressing further.

“Don’t worry,” Harry whispers in between kisses, and he isn’t talking about nail polish. “Seriously, Lou. You don’t have to worry. Things are going to be fine.”

Louis sighs and leans back, his eyes casted on the water that’s getting colder around them.

It’s an unfair request, his, Harry knows it – unreasonable, even. But they need it, both of them. They need not to worry and they need to believe things are going to be at least tolerable for the foreseeable future.

Finally, Louis looks up at him, and tries to cover his wet exhale with a cool, poised expression. It’s a mask, one Harry can see through now as well as any other time Louis puts it on, but he’s still grateful for it.

“I’m not worried at all,” Louis lies, but if Harry silences his brain a bit he can almost buy it. Louis has always been a better actor than him. “I mean, we are the Dream Team, aren’t we? We can get through anything.”

The Dream Team, well. Harry wishes they could be the Real Team for once.

 

 

** 20th – With a cherry on top **

 

The cutest selfie ever.

Truth is, Jimmy Kimmel’s sketch doesn’t even get in the top 10 of the stupidest things One Direction has been asked to do, but it’s still utterly nonsensical.

Under burning lights and in front of a pink backdrop with ice creams and candies (which does look like a weird porno background, no one will convince Harry otherwise. He could bet it’s taken straight from Willy Wanker and The Bear Hunk Factory), kittens are climbing over Liam’s arms as he holds a giant teacup. Niall has a tiara on his head and the leash of a unicorn pony in his hand. Zayn is, like, looking gorgeous in the background and maybe holding a stuffed animal.

And then, on the other side of Jimmy, Harry and Louis are standing near each other with Wesley, Jimmy’s nephew and tiny Harry lookalike, between them. As in, there’s an adorable suit-wearing child who looks like he shares genetic material with Harry standing near them. Which is, uh. A lot for Harry’s fragile self.

Harry’s also holding Boo, which is apparently the world’s cutest God (Bruce is actually cuter), all the while Jimmy continues to call more cute things onto the stage.

They were explained how the sketch was going to work, down to the details of putting Harry and Wesley in matching pink boas, but it’s never the same when you imagine something and when you do it.

For example, Harry’s going to have a real problem of self-combustion and implosion very soon if Louis moves any closer to him. That hadn’t been anticipated. Him possibly going off like a bottle of coke with a mentos thrown in hadn’t been anticipated.

“Like, maybe if we had, like, twin little girl ballerinas, like, in ballerina costumes, it would be a nice thing,” Jimmy tells Guillermo. As Louis nods excitedly beside him, Harry feels the temperature rise some more in the studio. Of course, that’s nothing compared to when two beautiful black girls in tiny pink tutus come running toward them and Louis leans down to greet them and coo.

The last protagonist of the picture is a baby dressed as a cherry, whom Louis looks at like he’s planning how to snatch him up and get away with it, and Harry’s heart isn’t equipped to deal with any of this.

And why did he agree to take the dog, anyway, when he knows he’s useless with them?

Oh, right. The producer had asked who wanted to take the dog right after introducing Wesley to the band, and Louis was crouching down to be at his eye level, gently talking to him and ruffling his hair. Harry’s brain to mouth channel had momentarily disconnected.

Jimmy finally takes the selfie and says goodbye to them, and the five of them scatter around the studio. Jonathan, Wesley’s father, signals Wesley to come off stage, and Harry gives the child a tiny pat on the shoulder, encouraging him to go. His heart almost bursts when, after Jonathan has checked that he’s not too overwhelmed, he lets Wesley come back to him, Wesley immediately running back to him and plastering himself to his side. He’s just so bloody cute, with his miniature curls and miniature suit and miniature boa.

As filming ends and they make their ways backstage, Harry and Liam caught chatting with Jimmy and Jonathan while Wesley scampers off somewhere. Liam holds most of the conversation, thankfully, with Harry only chiming in for some random comment. He’s distracted, he wants to check how Louis is doing.

They had filmed Ellen before coming here, and Louis had been tense for the whole thing, with a lot of staring on the ground and not a lot of talking during the actual interview. Louis had been kind of nervously excited to go on Ellen, but from when Liam took his seat beside Harry instead of letting Louis sit there, it had all gone a bit downhill. Ironically enough, Ellen seemed to adore Harry, even asking him to call her and stuff.

Ellen may find him charming, but the main reason why she likes him is that he has at least a foot out of his closet. She may not know about their plans and their intentions, but she knows about Louis and Harry. It’s not a secret for anyone who’s ever seen them together out of the spotlight. Yet, whatever Louis had hoped for (and he may never admit it out loud, but he was waiting for it with bated breath) – a nod, a subtle gesture of encouragement – hadn’t come. All Louis got was a stiff hug and having to listen to Harry answering a question about 1989 roses for Taylor.

It’s a stupid bloody vicious cycle of guilt they won’t be able to escape until they come out.

“Well, it was great having you,” Jimmy tells them, interrupting his musings, and both he and Jonathan shake their hands.

“Thank you for having us,” Harry replies automatically, as an assistant comes up to them and informs him and Liam that they’re scheduled to leave in ten minutes.

Time to find Louis, then. He had looked much brighter and relaxed this time, because he had fewer expectations about it, and because Jimmy and his writers had tried to make it less trite than the _fans/girls/who’s-the-most_ interviews they’re used to getting (although there had been that quip about who was going to go bald first…).

As always, whenever Harry thinks of Louis as a small fragile creature in need of reassurance and coddling, he is disproven. He finds him holding the baby-dressed-as-a-cherry, now no longer dressed as a cherry, and with a twin under his free arm and a Niall by his side, as a woman who is probably the baby’s mum takes a picture of them. Wesley and the other twin, in the meantime, are happily pirouetting nearby.

Now, _that_ would be the cutest selfie ever.

Harry approaches the group as Louis woefully returns the baby to their mother’s arms, and slips beside him, putting a hand on the small of Louis’ back. “Hello,” he whispers in his ear.

“Hi, babe,” Louis replies, grinning, just as the dancing twin tugs on his sleeve and says, “Looooouiiis, look at me!”

Louis affectionately pats her bun and flashes her the full crinkly eyed smile. “You and Wes have all my attention, love.” He winks at Wesley, and both children beam at him like sunflowers at dawn. A bloody child whisperer, Louis is.

“You’re both great twirlers,” he continues, his voice soft and reassuring. “Actually, I reckon you could teach a thing or two to my dear friend here. He’s terrible at it,” he stage-whispers, covering his mouth with a hand as he points to Harry with his thumb, and the kids seem torn between being nice to Harry and laughing.

“I am a bit terrible,” Harry agrees with a shrug, and the two let out loud cheery giggles.

“Come on, Harold, show them. Give us a twirl.”

Louis is looking at him as if sorrow didn’t exist in this world and, if he were to ask him to jump, Harry would be in the air before he had any chance of asking ‘how high’.

Under the expectant gaze of two actual toddlers and a slightly higher one, he lifts his arms above his head in a circle and twirls.

 

 

** 21st – Could probably write a sappy song about it **

 

He doesn’t want to wake Louis.

It hurts _hurts_ **_hurts_** like a drill in his ear digging a hole into his skull, waves of pain rattling every inch of his body, and he needs to stand up and take every painkiller they have and cry and would life really be that bad with one ear less? No _no_ **_no_** it wouldn’t, it would be fucking amazing, but he doesn’t want to wake Louis.

Harry bites into the pillow a little harder, eyes wet, and he may be crying a bit, maybe, he can’t tell, it hurts too much.

It’s because it’s the beginning. The beginning is always sudden, and is always terrible, and then it gets better and he stops shaking and the world stops shaking and it’s not a torture anymore, when his face rubs against the pillow and makes that _noise_ , or when Louis’ soft adorable snores seem bulldozers squashing his brain flat.

It’s too bloody much. Harry rolls on his back and bites his lips as hard as he can.

“Babe,” Louis mumbles sleepily from beside him, blindly moving an arm until it collides with Harry’s chest. “You awake?”

“Yeah”, Harry whispers, voice raspy, trying to contain the damage to his ear. He won’t say anything, but he prays for Louis to notice that something’s wrong, and take care of him.

It doesn’t take long.

“Hazza?” Louis calls, and he sounds wide awake now. Harry hears him fumbling with something on the nightstand until he manages to turn his reading light on. “Are you okay?”

Harry groans, unable to come up with an answer, and throws an arm on his eyes. He feels Louis sit up on the bed and shift closer, and somehow that alone eases his pain a bit.

“My ear,” he murmurs when Louis remains still, hovering over him, and that’s enough to spring him into action.

“Again?” Louis moans gloomily, grabbing Harry’s wrist and carefully moving his arm off his face. “Left or right? Any other symptom? When did the pain start?”

Louis’ preparation is a testament both of how marvellous he is and how often it happens to Harry. And God, why can’t Harry stay healthy for a bloody month? One month. One full month in which he doesn’t have to rely on vitamins, painkillers and antibiotics to get through his daily schedule.

“Left, always left. Everything else is okay. And it started like an hour ago, I think.”

“An hour?” Louis scolds with the loudest whisper he can get away with without aggravating Harry’s ache. “You waited a bloody hour?” He sighs, rubbing his eyes with a hand. “Whatever, okay. Let me go get your drops.”

Louis sprints to their bathroom and is back in no time, which is still long enough for Harry to contemplate how becoming hard of hearing would be. Both he and Louis are fluent in sign language. It really wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

“Here.” Louis deposits a glass of water and various medications on Harry’s nightstand. “Take some painkillers first,” he instructs, and watches Harry as he sits up and swallows two ibuprofens. “Do you want to put your hair up?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, reaching for the hair tie he keeps around his wrist. Fuck, all he wants to do is lie back down, fall asleep and never regain consciousness again. How did he even catch it this time?

Before he can do anything else, Louis pries the hair tie from his hand. “Just let me do it, okay?”

He gives a swift caress to Harry’s forehead, then carefully collects Harry’s locks in a circle between his thumb and forefinger, painstakingly slow, dragging his fingertips on Harry’s ears, the nape of his neck, the crown of his head. He puts the hair tie around them, then, securing them into a ponytail. He gives it a playful tug and says, “On your side now, love.”

“Are you taking advantage of my illness to fulfil your hair fantasies?” Harry drawls with a grin, peering up at Louis as he slides down on the bed and lays his head on the pillow, his pesky left ear facing up.

Louis sits down next to him and grabs the bottle of eardrops, uncapping it. “I just don’t think you should restrict yourself to buns, you know?” he says with a wink, thumbing at the fleshy part of Harry’s ear. “Now stay still.”

Harry closes his eyes as Louis pours two drops into his ear and rubs the skin around it in circular motions to make them seep through. The pain is already subsiding, and he may be able to fall back asleep in a bit. Maybe even get to keep his ear.

“Want me to put a warm cloth on it?” Louis asks as he cups Harry’s jaw, but Harry shakes his head. “Something to drink? A tea maybe?”

“No.” Harry puts his hand on Louis’, keeping him close close close. “Stay here, please.”

“Sure,” Louis replies easily, watching him with that smile that lifts his whole face up. “Should we spoon?”

“Nu-uh, want to see you.”

It should be, like, scientifically proven that the mere sight of Louis Tomlinson can act as a potent analgesic.

“Budge over, then.” Louis turns off the light and slips under the covers as Harry scoots back until he’s at the end of his pillow. Half a bed will suffice for tonight. “What day is today?” he asks around a yawn, intertwining his ankles with Harry’s.

“Friday, I think.”

Harry can vaguely see Louis’ frowning expression in the darkness, as they both try to remember what they have to do today. When you go on for years having someone paid to tell you where you have to go and when, minute by minute, like a bloody television channel, you start to forget how to keep track of what’s to come, or why you’d need to do it in the first place.

“Oh, shit,” Louis groans. “The AMA rehearsals. Our slot is today.”

“Mh, right.” Suddenly Harry feels a little worse than ten seconds before. Performing with an aching ear is dreadful and uncomfortable, while not showing up at all would be grossly unprofessional. There’s no winning. “I also have to be papped at the theatre, I think,” he adds. Time for another set of pictures of him grimacing while walking to be spread around the internet. What a thrilling day in the life of Harry Styles.

“Nope, not happening,” Louis mutters matter-of-factly, as if the choice was theirs. “You’re going in, lip synching your part and going out. Some nice shots of me and El will have to suffice. We’ll even smile if they ask nicely.”

“That’s a big promise there, Tommo,” Harry says, smiling into the pillow.

“Ah, the things I do for love.” Louis leans forward to kiss his nose, and Harry tilts his head to join their lips. The kiss drives Louis’ entire body forward as their mouths open, their tongues dancing in a frantic tango.

“I guess you’re feeling better, uh?” Louis murmurs breathlessly into Harry’s neck when they separate, little puffs of air heating Harry’s bare skin.

Harry nods, the sting in his ear resembling now the ticking of a clock you haven’t yet tuned out. He feels all the exhaustion now, though, his limbs like rocks on the mattress.

Louis brushes his palm along Harry’s profile, voice low and tender, as Harry tries to suppress a yawn “You should still catch some sleep, alright? I’ll take care of everything.”

Harry lays an arm on Louis’ side and shuts his eyes without a doubt in his mind.

 

 

** 22nd \- Guyliner **

 

Harry likes children. He likes them a lot. And in between all the perks of being with Louis Tomlinson, the supply of individuals under the age of eighteen that his family provides is not one Harry takes lightly.

He knows his borderline obsession with babies is somewhat proverbial now, but, honestly, newborns are more Louis’ thing. It’s ironic, because manic Louis is the one who’d rather stay put and spend hours cradling a tiny bundle of human in his arms, his usual demeanour completely defeated by gargling noises and minuscule onesies.

Harry loves Doris and Ernest, has offered to babysit them indefinitely countless times now, but if he has to pick whom to spend an afternoon with, Daisy and Phoebe win hands down.

Which is why he has Daisy perched up behind him, her small hands working his hair into braids, while Phoebe puts purple eye shadow on his eyelids. Purple is not really Harry’s colour, and if she presses a bit harder he may never recover his sight, but he can’t keep the grin off his face, even when Phoebe declares his eyes sufficiently _smoked_ and moves on to his mouth.

“You have to relax and stay still,” she instructs him, serious and focused, coming at him with a stick of Chanel’s dazzling bronze.

He makes a big show of straightening up and contorting his face in his best greek statue impression, making Phoebe giggle. He may be overcompensating a bit. It must be that he’s been denied meaningful contacts with them for so long when they decided it was best to keep Louis’ sibling in the dark about their relationship, and now that he can spend time with them, he’s not afraid of going overboard. The girls definitely don’t seem to mind.

(Sometimes they still ask when Eleanor is coming over. It kinda hurts, but it happens less and less now, and Harry is patient.)

“Girls,” Louis’ voice echoes from the kitchen, making Phoebe falter a bit and most definitely put some dazzling bronze onto Harry’s now dazzling chin. “Would you like some tea and biscuits?”

“Coming,” Phoebe and Daisy chant in perfect unison. Then, Phoebe returns her attention to Harry and, “Okay,” she declares with a pat on his head. “All done.”

“Thank you, Phoebs,” he replies politely, just a tad strained because of Daisy placing the last hair tie on him and almost scalping him in the process. “Thank you, Daisy.”

Daisy throws her tiny arms around his neck and presses a wet kiss to his cheek, mumbling a heartfelt, “You’re welcome, Harry.”

Phoebe only nods solemnly at him and, before he can say anything, they scamper off, almost running into Lottie as they get out of the room and she gets in. “Easy, there, lovelies,” she huffs, ruffling the hair of one of them as they pass. Harry is 99% sure it’s Daisy. He’s getting rather good at telling them apart.

“Do you fancy some tea, Harry?” Lottie asks, but does a – admittedly, well concealed – double take when she sees his face. He shrugs at her with a smile. Purple truly doesn’t become him. “Ow, what have they done to you?” she coos, trying for sympathetic but failing completely when her voice cracks with laughter.

She approaches him, then, and rolls her big blue eyes at the sight of one of her make up kits sitting haphazardly on the coffee table. “Should I help you take it off?”

He hesitates for a moment, pursing his lips in uncertainty, and who knows where the dazzling bronze is traveling now. Of course he wants to take Phoebe’s mess off, but he also, like. Doesn’t. Quite difficult to explain to your not-yet-sister-in-law, though.

Thankfully, said not-yet-sister-in-law is much more perceptive than Harry gives her credit for. “Or,” she says, each word carefully measured, “should I fix it?”

And there’s something weird and unexpected in the relief he feels at those four words, and he nods at her because he doesn’t want to give too much away, nor he wants to come out too aloof, like it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s better to shut the fuck up.

“Okay, so no purple,” she decides as she takes some makeup remover wipes from the kit and starts cleaning Harry’s lids, her hands even gentler than when she’s working with Lou.

“No purple,” Harry agrees with a grin, the corners of his mouth impossible to keep down.

“And maybe we can skip the dazzling bronze,” she suggests, eliminating any trace of it from his skin with firm strokes. “I think you’re more of a strawberry red kind of bloke. Or, like, coral peach.”

“I like coral peach. I reckon Louis may like it as well.”

Lottie snorts and, when Harry opens his eyes, she’s sporting the sceptical Tomlinson eyebrow raise. It’s okay, though. Harry is the subject of the sceptical Tomlinson eyebrow raise on a regular basis. “I reckon,” she says pointedly, “that Louis likes your natural backstage blowie bubblegum pink just fine.”

“Lottie!” he screams, wide eyed and secretly delighted. God, she is such a gift in his life.

Lottie sticks his tongue out to him and starts applying a layer of concealer on his cheekbones. “What, I’m only telling it like it is. And don’t shake your head, I can’t work if you keep moving like a bobblehead.”

Insufferable and demanding, just like her brother. Harry hums and humours her, schooling his features, closing his eyes and letting her continue undisturbed.

She brushes and draws and paints on him, silent but for the occasional “Green eye shadow, what do you think?”, and “Mascara or no mascara?” (she opts for no when he answers, “Why, are you ma-scared it’ll be too much?”). She ends with a thick coat of coral peach on his lips, and she corrects a tiny slip out of bounds with her thumb – something she’d never do in a professional setting, but Harry is glad that she feels comfortable enough to do it with him.

“There,” she says, flicking a curl that managed to escape Daisy’s braids behind his ears. “You look well cute, mate.”

“Thanks,” Harry beams.

There’s a certain commotion coming from the nearby room, a sound that can only indicate the imminent arrival of one Louis Tomlinson, but Lottie is staring at Harry with an uncertain look, like she can’t quite decide if she wants to say something or not. 

She gives a shrug and leans down, bringing her mouth to Harry’s ear to whisper, “Pull your jeans up, I can see your pants.” She kisses his cheek, then, just like Daisy did. Whatever hollow, dreadful feeling had started to blossom into Harry’s gut gets punched and squashed by an uncontrollable wave of warm fuzziness.

If he remembers correctly, he’s wearing the panties with the black lacy trim with the bow in the middle. It’s a washed up pair, tending more toward grey now than its original white. Harry should get rid of them, but every time he’s about to, he finds that he can’t.

They are a gift from Louis, who’d given them to Harry in a casual, almost joking manner. As if to say _, I’m pretending I got them as a joke, but I know about your secret stash_. As if to say _, you can laugh at me and throw them away, or you can put them on and stop being terrified, your call_.

Sometimes Harry wonders what kind of person he would be if he hadn’t had someone like Louis beside him when he had been tossed in a shark world at sixteen, if he would have learned how to swim alone, or if he would have caved to the pressure and become the scandalous celebrity his team wanted him so desperately to be.

He didn’t know what to say to Louis at the time, and he doesn’t know what to say to Lottie now. If there is even anything he _could_ say, besides mumbling a, “Thank you,” in her hair.

He lets his trousers exactly as they are, and Lottie doesn’t seem at all surprised.

“There you are, you two” Louis exclaims with perfect timing, entering the room and skipping his way to the couch while Lottie starts reordering her set. “Hazza, I left you a cuppa in the kitchen, if you’d like to drink it later. I won’t even get mad if you heat it up in the microwave.”

He stops in front of Harry and cups his jaw with warm fingers, Harry grinning up at him. “I hope this is waterproof,” Louis comments as he bends down to kiss him, nice and slow and a bit deeper than they usually do in front of any of their relatives.

It isn’t waterproof, actually, and, when Louis pulls back, his lips have become a shade darker. Coral peach works wonders with his tanned complexion.

Lottie glances at them with a sigh that poorly conceals how cute she finds them. Which, like, Harry gets, because he and Louis are proper fucking cute. Lottie should stop fighting the _love_.

(Harry feels buoyant. Like a hot air balloon. Like a rocket about to land on the moon. He feels he’s about to land on the moon and stick in the ground a flag with a rainbow heart and a badly drawn penis on it.)

“Alright, I’ll go check if Fizzy and the twins need help,” Lottie announces as Louis plops down on the couch next to Harry, clearly with no intention of leaving his side anytime soon. “Did mum say when they were coming back?”

“Couple of hours… ish? I think?” Louis answers, his mouth and forehead doing the adorable frowny thing. He really does look pretty with coral peach. He’d probably look gorgeous with dazzling brown as well. Topped with purple eye shadow to bring out the darkest notes in his eyes, that’d be something. Or maybe…

“Whatever, I’ll send her a text,” Lottie says and takes a couple of steps toward the door.

“Actually, Lottie,” Harry speaks up before he loses the nerve to do it. “Would you mind putting some eyeliner on Louis?”

Lottie stops in her tracks, turning around with an amused and mischievous grin, and Harry sees Louis shift awkwardly with the corner of his eye. And, like, it’s not like Louis _has_ to do it. It’s totally fine if he doesn’t want to. But, with the way the two are staring at each other, Harry feels like he’s missing something.

“Of course,” Lottie answers, voice low and saucy. “Wouldn’t be his first time.”

And that’s… interesting. Beside him, Louis covers his face with his hands.

“When Louis was, like, sixteen,” Lottie continues, plainly enjoying how Louis is squirming in his spot, “he used to put it on and take pictures of himself in the loo – ”

Oh God, this must be the single best thing Harry has been told in the last week. Month maybe. It’s not even hard to imagine at all – Louis has had a rather embarrassing adolescence. Like, more than most people’s. And he made sure to produce albums and albums of evidence of it all, entire file folders of pictures that the Tomlinson siblings are always more than willing to share with Harry.

(Harry thinks he probably would have fallen in love at first sight even with teen Louis with a football on his head.)

In the meantime, Louis has lifted two fingers from in front of his eyes and is now stealing glances at Harry.

“ – _and_ he called it guyliner.”

 _Guy_ – Harry is clutching his stomach in laughter before he even realises it, a thin veil of tears on his eyes, as Lottie cackles evilly and Louis groans into his hands, his neck flashing red.

“I’m sure we still have pictures somewhere at home,” Lottie says, voice like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “I’ll have to dig them out.”

Before Harry can say, _Oh my God yes absolutely_ , Louis throws his arms in the air, waving them in a _stop stop stop_ motion. “No no no, no digging, no digging of anything!” he cries hurriedly, and then, calmer, “Some things are better left to young Harold’s fervid imagination. But the eyeliner…”

He lets out a light chuckles and shakes his head in Harry’s direction, before addressing Lottie again. “I mean, Lots, if you want. It’s not like you haven’t put makeup on me before.”

Lottie nods immediately, clapping her hands once and rubbing her palms together as she struts back to her set and selects a black pencil.

“Sit up, keep still, close your eyes and shut your mouth,” Lottie orders Louis, coming to stand in front of him and moving his fringe out of the way with a swift stroke. “You know the drill.”

“Okay, boss,” Louis says, which in Louis-speak means he’ll do as he pleases without any regard for anything he’s been told to do. He does sit up, keep still, close his eyes and shut his mouth, though, so at least Lottie will have a smooth start.

Surprisingly, Lottie applies the eyeliner on the top lash lines without a hitch. After that, it gets messier.

“Ouch,” Louis whines as soon as the tip of the pencil touches his right lower lash line. It escalates to, “It burns”, in the middle of the line, just to turn into a full-blown rant by three quarters of it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is awful,” Louis says as Lottie continues her work and sighs deeply. “My eyes are watering, what the fuck? Is this normal? I don’t think so. I’m dying. I’m going blind,” he puts his hand on Lottie’s wrist, halting its motions, and pleads, “Please, before it’s too late. Let me look at Harry’s abs one last time before it’s too late.”

“Of all the things, are you sure the last parts of Harry you’d like to see are his abs?” Lottie says, impassive, and switches to the other eye like she didn’t even hear the rest of his complaints.

Louis doesn’t even respond, just lets out a grunt and flails his arm beside him, presumably searching for Harry’s stomach, until Harry takes pity on him and guides Louis’ hand under his shirt. At least they can all enjoy a minute of silence as Louis happily runs his fingers up and down Harry’s torso.

“Okay, the torture’s over, drama queen,” Lottie announces when she’s done, and gives a pat on Louis’ head. “You actually pull it off quite well. I’ll have to tell Lou.”

Louis bats her hand away and pulls his legs up on the couch with a fussy moan. “You won’t tell Lou anything. No one’s getting near my eyes with an article of stationery ever again. Ever.”

He uses his index finger to wipe the wetness at the corner of his left eyes, but Lottie grabs his hand before he can do much damage. “Don’t ruin my work!”

“You almost blinded me, what do you want?”

“You’re so ridiculous!”

“Um,” Harry says, and watches with fascination as both Tomlinson siblings interrupt their tiff and turn toward him. “Can I see it?”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says with a soft chuckle, twisting around until he’s sitting face to face with Harry. “Do you like it?”

He makes tiny shimmying motions with his hips, playfully showing off and he is – magnificent. His eyes seem huge and bluer than blue, his features even sharper than usual, but it’s not about the eyeliner. It’s finally seeing Louis without any restraint, doing something he must deem a bit silly on himself, simply because it’s not his thing, but doing it anyway and enjoying it fully. Unabashed, wild, all over the place – the same Louis he met at sixteen.

No matter what has been thrown at him, he’s still the same spontaneous, loud loud and loud fool Harry fell in love with, but so much better, so much more layered now. It’s precious. It’s something Harry would give anything to protect.

“I love it,” Harry answers, and he’s glad some incoming steps are muffling how choked he must sound.

It takes Louis half a glance to read through him, obviously, even with the confusion Fizzy and the twins create as they enter the room. They share one of their usual _love you / love you too_ looks, mastered after years of non-verbal communication in public settings, and the rapid fluttering in Harry’s chest feels disgustingly like butterflies.  

“Wow, a revival of the good old guyliner,” Fizzy deadpans with the specific brand of disdain that’s exclusive of teens, making Louis groan and both of them remember that they have kids to babysit.

“Long story,” Louis says, gesturing Fizzy to let go, before addressing Daisy and Phoebe. “Should we do something together, loves?”

“Yes,” Daisy answers, excited, waving one of her tiny fists in the air.

“Nice, I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Louis comments, and Daisy beams. “Phoebs, what do you suggest?”

There’s only one thing Phoebe could suggest, as she’s been obsessed with it for months now, so it comes to no one’s surprise when she yells, “Footie!” and bounces up and down on her twiggy legs.

“All in favour?” Louis asks to them all, as if anyone could ever have the cruelty to say no to the two of them. They all mumble their agreements, even Fizzy, who’s in the phase in which she pretends that everything annoys her and the world sucks. Apparently, quality time with their big brother in their only week home from school is enough to cure even an Adolescent Syndrome.

“Who wants to be on Team Styles?” Harry asks, looking hopefully at the girls. He’s getting better at the game. He’s at least decent. Like, maybe he can’t beat Phoebe, who actually belongs to a football team, but Daisy, who’s only ever done ballet? He can beat a ten years old who’s only ever done ballet. Probably.

When no one raises their hand, Louis sighs and rolls his eyes, leaning forward and throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“All right. Harry and I against everyone else, okay?”

Harry can’t think of a better Team Styles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16th – The books referenced are ‘Mermaids In Paradise’ by Lydia Millet and ‘Emperor Of Thorns’ by Mark Lawrence, title from ‘Mermaids In Paradise’  
> 18th – Title from ‘Act my Age’


	5. Chapter 5

** 23rd – Four of a kind **

 

The only good thing is that she’s wearing green, like a green crop top and a green floor-length skirt. And not forest green, or moss, or pine, or even teal. More of a shade of indigestible guacamole green, which makes her impossible to miss or not recognise.

She looks amazing in it, of course, with the blond hair and the big eyes and the red lips. Majestic like a carnivorous plant that’s about to chop Harry’s head off and swallow it whole.

(if it weren’t for his signature Harry Styles hair, he’s not sure the AMA crowd would notice it if he were to walk out without a head.)

Not that he’s, like, intimidated by Taylor Swift. It’s just that he has to wee very much and she’s standing in front of the loos.

The last few feet are the worst. They’ve both seen the other but they’re not close enough to say hello and should Harry maybe wave? He should wave. Or maybe not, because who waves at their ex fake girlfriends?

Harry Styles, that’s who. His hand is up, it’s making a left to right movement and yeah, he’s waving. Four years of media training and this is his life.

At least Taylor utters an animated “Hi”, like she’s actually happy that they’ll be forced to make small talk.

“Hi,” Harry replies when he’s close enough, stopping a few feet from her. But it’s not like he _has_ to. He could go straight into the bathroom. There are plenty of people around. And it’s not like he has to justify why he’s here. “They, um, always give a lot of fluids backstage at these things,” he says instead, in a remarkable display of cleverness and wit. Taylor’s expression makes him want to dive into a toilet and flush himself down the drain.

“I know, right?” she says, because she’s still polite enough not to voice the _what is wrong with you_ on her face. “And thank God for that. It’s the only way to survive the whole evening.” Her tone is relaxed and casual, all smiles and gesturing, but she steals a glance to the ladies restroom’s door like she’s praying for whoever she’s waiting for to come out at once. “Oh, and congrats on the awards, by the way. And the performance. You guys sounded amazing.”

That’s it. That’s his exit. He’ll congratulate her and make a dash for the loo faster than that time with Niall and the salmonella chicken. As he starts to thank her, though, someone does emerge from the bathroom.

“You were right, it’s freezing in here,” Karlie Kloss announces as she steps out of the loo and makes a beeline for Taylor. “My stomach is all goose-bumpy. How did we agree to wear crop tops?” she complains, but her voice is that of a kid who’s just been given the okay to open presents at Christmas.

Taylor raises her eyebrows at her, sending a side-way glance to Harry, and Karlie’s eyes land on him. And, he knows she’s a, like, proper supermodel, but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared to have six feet of blond goddess staring at him.

“Oh, Harry!” she says. And yeah. Candy Floss. She may look a bit like a giant ball of very aesthetically pleasing fluffy cavity-inducing ball of sugar. He’s not telling that to Louis. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m a big fan of the band. Lovely to meet you!”

She extends him a hand, and Harry would like to tell her that his hands are clammy and his bladder is starting to seriously hurt, but he shakes it with his camera smile. “Glad to meet you too, and thank you.”

Of course, five seconds into the very awkward silence that ensues is when Louis decides to show up in all his cockatoo-quiffed, black suit-clad glory. In a more surprising turn of events, he looks absolutely ecstatic.

He slides up to Harry’s side and puts a hand on his hip, drawing him closer. On of Taylor’s hand clenches and unclenches, seems to almost reach out to Karlie, as if she wanted to reach out for her and plaster her to her side like Louis is doing with Harry. Drawing their mates near, very Discovery Channel.

“Isn’t this an interesting gathering,” Louis says drily, but with gusto, meaning that he’s either trying to be funny or up to something. Or both. “I’m Louis, Harry’s fiancée,” he tells Karlie, although they both know who the other is.

It’s a bit petty, maybe, because they almost never say it when introducing each other (and when they do it’s because _boyfriend_ feels so past what they are, and _partner_ makes them sound like two cops coming to ask you a few questions, and _lover_ is just plain weird. _Spouse_. _Spouse_ would be good).

To be fair, they aren’t actually getting married anytime soon, their marriage talk being more of an evasion from the sometimes suffocating place they are in than an actual plan. Hopefully one day they’ll have it, the Real Talk, and Harry imagines it will feel different than any other one.

It’s lovely to hear it, though, the word. The way Louis’ accent warps around the accented _a_ , how he says it more pointedly than any other word, as if to say _hey, listen to this_. 

It also usually goes straight over anyone’s head, but not this time.

“Oh my God, you guys are engaged?” Karlie asks, wide eyed and bringing a surprised hand to her cheek. She’s absolutely adorable and Harry feels the urge to buy any article of lingerie she’s ever advertised.

Then, with a leap that’s possible only with legs long like both of Louis’ stacked together, Karlie puts a hand on Louis’ shoulder and gives him one kiss per cheek. “It’s amazing,” she says to the left cheek and, “You were so cute on stage, it was so romantic,” to the right.

“Wasn’t it romantic?” she says to Taylor while she passes from Louis to Harry.

The next is the best minute of Harry’s entire day – and he has just serenaded his beautiful cockatoo in front of most of the American music industry, so that’s something.

On one side, Louis’s eyebrows are so high they almost blend in with his quiff and he’s keeping his arms stuck to his sides, as if he believes that the predators won’t see him if he doesn’t move.

On the other, Taylor looks a puzzling mix of extremely uncomfortable for the situation and extremely fond of Karlie.

In the middle, Harry is receiving his two congratulatory kisses and, although Karlie may not be exactly his type, she smells sweet and is nice, and any display of support is welcome in Harry’s book. And, she’s a Victoria’s Secret model. One can not be interested and still appreciate the close proximity with someone who could have actually scored better at the genetic lottery than Zayn.

“I think it’s time for us to go back,” Taylor says pointedly, and, as Karlie mutters a, “Sure, you’re right,” she grabs her arm and gently pulls her in the direction of the theatre.

“It was nice talking to you,” Harry tells them as they begin walking away, Karlie still half-turned toward them.

“It was nice talking to you too,” Karlie yells back with a wave cuter than Anne Hathaway’s in The Princess Diaries.

He elbows Louis, trying to spark a reaction from him, but he looks inexorably perplexed by what has just happened. “And pardon him,” he adds, “he seems to be in a bit of a blank space.”

That earns him a loud snort from Taylor, who actually stops and glances back at him. “Goodbye Harry,” she says, sending him a dorky smile. She’s always struck him as one to enjoy a pun. “Have a good rest of the evening.”

“You too,” Harry and a newly recovered Louis yell at the same time, before Louis clasps Harry’s hand in his and physically drags him into the loo.

“Did a Victoria’s Secret angel who might be Taylor Swift’s girlfriend just congratulate us on our engagement?” Louis asks with an incredulous chuckle, as he pushes Harry into a stall and closes the door behind them. “Did that happen?”

He presses Harry with his back against a wall, his hands on Harry’s waistline, and it takes a second for Harry to realise he’s supposed to say something.

Instead, he kisses Louis, because he fails at being logical. He cups Louis’ jaw with both hands and shoves his tongue into his mouth without much ceremony, and Louis lets out a muffled, surprised moan. “It really happened,” he murmurs during a brief pause, then dives right back in, sliding a hand behind Louis’ neck and pulling him closer and closer. Louis tasted of champagne and victory.

Louis moves his lips from Harry’s to his chin, his cheek, bringing their foreheads together. His breathing pattern is irregular and erratic, his pulse rabbiting under Harry’s fingers. “And _Night Changes_? Did it happen as well?”

Like, when Harry had sung the entire song with his whole body turned in Louis’ direction, without looking away once? Yeah. It did happen. Harry’s rather proud, and reckons it couldn’t have been more blatant if he had done it while wearing the ‘Harry <3 Louis’ t-shirt.

“I couldn’t have kept my eyes off you if I’d wanted to, my darling cockatoo,” he says, bumping their noses together and patting Louis’ magnificent quiff with a palm.

Louis ducks his head in an attempt to escape Harry’s giant hand, ever particular about his hair. “Stop calling me _cockatoo_ , would you?” he squeals, though he flashes Harry with a pleased smile that does nothing to sustain his words.

“Would you prefer only _cock_?” Harry throws back, reaching out to give Louis’ crotch a fast squeeze.

Louis replies with a delightful half-yelp half-moan, followed by a, “Definitely more up my alley.” He takes another step forward, trapping Harry once again.

“And up other things as well,” Harry grins, watching Louis with a challenge in his eyes. But, when Louis takes his cue and thrusts his hips, making their groins crash and rub together, Harry lets out a groan that’s more pain than pleasure. “Fuck, ouch, I’m sorry,” he chuckles as Louis shoots him a confused look. “I really need to wee.”

“You do, uh?” Louis puts the tips of his fingers against Harry’s lower abdomen, staring at him with a gigantic smirk and a quirked eyebrow, and pushes.

Harry jumps, squawks and has to clench his abs very very tight not to pee himself. “Lou- _is_ ,” he whimpers, eyes a bit watery.

Oh God. _Don’t, Harry. Do not think of watery things._

“Alright, go wee,” Louis concedes magnanimously after a few seconds, taking his hand off him and sliding to his side. He leans against the wall and takes his phone out, all casual and seemingly without any intention of going out. “Be quick, actually,” he adds, watching the screen intently. “We absolutely need to go back now.”

Harry stops for a moment and is about to say something, but in the end he just shrugs and goes to relieve himself. Like, the two of them did meet while peeing, so there’s a sort of poetry in their complete lack of boundaries even in that matter. And men watch each other pee all the time in urinals.

Not, like, _watch watch_. Are. Exist together. It’s not like Louis is watching him now. Is he?

Harry peeps behind his shoulder and finds Louis sneaking not-so-subtle glances at his bum. “Like what you see?” he asks, nonchalantly, as he finishes and sorts himself out.

“Nah, my boyfriend’s fitter,” Louis rebuts right away. He follows Harry with his gaze while he washes his hands and dries them on a paper towel, their eyes briefly meeting in the mirror.

Louis looks so bloody beautiful tonight, God. Fierce, sharp, flawless. Could use a bit of levity, though, maybe.

Spinning around and walking toward him, Harry grins and splashes the residual water on Louis’ face. “Oops.”

“Heeey,” Louis rolls his eyes, but catches Harry’s hand in his and stands on his tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. “Hi,” he whispers softly, before opening the door and tugging him along as he steps outside.

As he lets himself be led, Harry thinks of how lucky he is to be stuck with someone who’d rather see him pee than leave him alone.

 

 

** 24th – Written with no end **

 

Time zones are awful and flights are awful and LA is awful and being without Louis is awful and Harry’s ear hurts like a bloody bitch.

Louis was knackered and had fallen asleep within an hour from take-off, for which Harry was happy, because it meant less jetlag for Louis, but also not very happy, because no messaging and no plane hair selfies and general not keeping Harry company while he was alone in their too big bed.

And Harry never sleeps as well without Louis, as if his body can’t relax with no one holding it, and there’s too much space, too much blanket, too much of everything for one person alone.

This is not a house for a single. This is a family home, a proper celebrity mansion bought with the intention of filling it with people. It gives Harry a thrill when he thinks about it, but it’s so unnerving now, days and days with their 24 hours security as his only constant company.

(Even if it’s just a night this time, and there’s other people in the house, but the reflexive dread is hard to shake off.)

They don’t have around the clock security in London. They should, probably. Harry would sleep much better on this side of the ocean if he knew there was someone checking on Louis’ safety each moment of the day.

It’s not that he doesn’t like the LA home. They chose it carefully, taking their time, while the London apartment had been an impulsive whim, something to distract them from the shittiness that surrounded them at the time. It had been great though, with evenings on tour buses and hotel beds spent browsing design catalogues and brainstorming sessions about the colour of the walls and always thinking of new things they may need. They still have a room with a naked lightbulb because they never got around to picking the right chandelier, and now they’re kinda attached.

_(naked lightbulbs, a string of them)_

He’s so tired. And his ear throbs. He can feel the weight of the awards in his hand, the heat of the lights on his skin. Niall’s fist bump, Liam’s arm across his shoulders, Zayn’s pat on his back. Jay and Dan’s hug. Karlie’s lips on his cheek.

Louis’ lips on his lips. Before, backstage, in the bathroom, afterwards, stained with grease from the hamburger, soft and smooth and smiling too brightly for a proper kiss, and yesterday, and hopefully tomorrow.

Harry has so many things to be grateful for, so few things to complain about, but there’s always something missing. Is it wrong that he wants to scream every time someone wins an award and they turn to kiss their partner, right there like it’s nothing?

Is it wrong that he hates the LA home, because Louis’ presence here always has a deadline, sometimes a set one and sometimes a sudden change of plans that leaves Harry whiplashed and lonely,  with nothing but his boots echoing on the marble of the entrance?

(Harry knows it’s the same for Louis. Louis says he likes LA more because he likes a tan, but it’s because he’s never truly alone here, like Harry’s never truly alone in London.)

He’s grateful. He’s happy. He’s just restless, jumpy, all over the place. He’s yoga and candles and breakfast in bed. He’s working out till vomiting and going out every time anyone asks, for work or for pr or for whatever, and never stopping long enough to heal properly.

He wants a ten years break. He wants tour to start tomorrow. He wants never to see a camera pointed at him again. He wants everyone to know his name. He wants to live on a deserted island and only wear flip flops. He wants to live on red carpets and never take suits off. He wants for his friendship not to come with a value attached, a guarantee that knowing him will make you relevant. He wants for the list of people wishing to meet him to only ever grow. He wants his life to be his and only his. He wants to bare his soul for anyone to hear.

He wants to come out and never have to discuss any private matter ever again. He wants to shout about all the love he feels from the top of mountains.

He wants to be with Louis. At least that he knows.

He places his right hand on the anchor on his wrist, and there’s no difference between the inked skin and the bare skin at the touch, but it’s still like putting a paperweight on his thoughts, so they remain collected and don’t scatter all around his skull, ricocheting on his bones and picking up speed.

Like in yoga, when they tell you to put all your weight on the floor, and relax, and think happy things.

He thinks of happy things. Of Bruce and Selina. Of Louis’ sisters and parents sleeping in the guest rooms near him. Of all the people that voted for them. Of the nice refrain that’s been stuck in his head for some days, and could be fleshed out to be something more. Of how nice his hair tickling his shoulders feels.

He thinks of soft fringes and velvety fingers and the nicest ass Harry’s ever had the privilege to lay his eyes on.

He sinks and sinks and sinks and sinks, and sleeps like a man at sea.

Drifting, weightless.

 

 

**  25th \- Was it a space was it a space was it a space to see  **

 

Being in a pressurised cabin with an ear infection is an absolute nightmare. He can’t fall asleep unless he takes a sleeping pill. He can’t put headphones in, and listening with a single headphone is just annoying.

Minor perk of not flying with Louis: Louis would try to cuddle Harry, but would end up falling asleep in every position, and Harry would have to wallow in self-pity with a dead weight resting on his various body parts.

Major drawback: no one is cuddling Harry right now. A sick Harry should be cuddled at all times. Instead, what is Zayn doing? Doodling. He’s doodling. On the in-flight dining menu.

“Zayn,” Harry whispers, trying to load the word with as much grumpiness as he can.

“Harry,” Zayn replies, his eyes not moving from the paper. “How’s your ear?”

“It’s doing better, I think,” Harry answers, although it’s actually doing worse at the moment, because he wasn’t thinking about it so it was fine, while now he’s hyperaware of it and the pain is starting to pick up again. He can’t win. “What are you doing?”

He leans closer to Zayn’s seat, and sees he’s drawn a circle with a flower in it, and is adding layers of details inside.

“Just putting down ideas for my hand tat. I want to add something to my mandala,” Zayn replies, rubbing the back of his left hand.

“Do you want to do the whole hand?”

Zayn turns to look at him with a small smile. “Yeah, like, up to the knuckles I think.”

“Well, it’s going to look great,” Harry says, as if there was a doubt that something on Zayn may not look great. “When are you getting it?”

Zayn frowns, squinting at him like he has just asked a very silly question. “The day after tomorrow. I’m going wi – ” he stops. Closes his mouth. Opens it. Says nothing else.

“– th Louis?” Harry completes for him, giving him a chuckle and a shrug. And yeah, maybe Zayn, Harry and Louis are a little bit of a trio, and they are the tattoo squad (because Liam is a perfectionist who needs months to plan something and needs to go alone and be alone and create a magical bond with the tattoo artists before they can even lay Vaseline on his skin). But if Zayn and Louis want to go on their secret little tattoo date, that’s, like, cool by Harry. Cooler than cool. Ice cold.

“Dunno,” Zayn says with no nonchalance whatsoever, drawing some spiky thingies into a petal. “What about you? Anything new planned?”

Zayn Malik, everyone: as subtle as a homosexual couple in a boyband.

“No,” Harry replies anyway, going along with Zayn’s change of topic. “Not for some time, at least.”

“Did you run off of nautical themed things?” Zayn chuckles and yeah, everyone kind of makes fun of them for their sliiiiiight obsession, but someone with three skulls permanently painted on his body should think twice before judging.

“Not at all! Let’s see…” Harry twists his lips in a pensive frown. “There’s the lighthouse, the North star, the harpoon, many different kind of fishes, and what else?” he licks his lips, and he knows there are a couple that are just on the tip of his tongue. Oh, right! “The winding wheel, of course.”

“Yeah, solid design, that,” Zayn comments.

“Oh, and also the dagger,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “Although Louis should probably be the one to get that.”

“Right,” Zayn screeches as his hand slips forward and traces a thick line through the mandala. Poor thing, his elbow must have fallen off the armrest.

It’s unfortunate. Harry may have the solution, though.

He leans his face as close to Zayn’s perfectly symmetrical face as possible, and brings out his best puppy pout, the one that makes Louis put his socks on and sometimes even tidy up after himself. “I’m sorry, Zayn,” he tells him. “Maybe you’d feel better if we cuddle a bit?”

It is, of course, a completely selfless proposition of Harry’s part.

Zayn lets out one good, deep, expressive sigh, but eventually nods. “Come here.”

Harry beams, and dives half his body into Zayn’s seat.

 

 

** 26th \- Wet spoil gaiters and knees and little spools **

 

“Niall and Melly sitting on a tree P-A-S-H-I-N-G.”

“I don’t even know what that means mate,” Niall says, but he’s blushing like a Victorian lady and keeping his eyes firmly on the ground. Niall is in _love_.

“Australian slang for ‘kissing passionately’. I read it in a magazine on the plane,” Harry answers and makes kissy faces at Niall, coming closer and closer, until he can leave a smooch on his cheek.

Niall only lets him brush his cheek before bringing up a hand and pushing his face away with a bright giggle. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Harry has absolutely no intention to. He starts looking around, scanning the crowd of cameramen and producers and general staff scurrying around the backstage area of the ARIA Awards. “Where is she, eh, Nialler?” he asks, elbowing Niall twice in the ribs. “Are you hiding her? Do you want to keep her all to yourself, you sly Irish Casanova?”

Niall, if possible, turns a shade darker. “’m not hiding anyone, she’s in the loo. Where’s Johnny, by the way?”

“He’s exploring somewhere,” Harry answers idly. “But do not try to deflect, Ni. I want to be formally introduced.”

Niall shakes his head at him, snorting. “You’ve met her before! No need to make a big deal out of it.”

“Not _officially_ , though. Come on, something like, ‘Melissa, ‘tis me charmin’ bandmate Harreh’,” Harry says in a terrible Irish accent. “And ‘Harreh, ‘tis me girlfriend Melissa’,” and then, with more sauce in his voice, he ads“’You might remember her as the bird I used to fuck on the side’.”

“Shhhh.” Niall gives him a light shove on the shoulder, and looks around. Thankfully, they aren’t in an American comedy, and Melly is not standing right behind them, listening in. “It’s not like that anymore, y’know. Maybe it never has been, with her.”

Ah, Niall. Always falling for the right people at the absolute worse time, always trying to be a cool, no-strings-attached cliché and always ending up hurting people, or getting hurt himself.

Melissa seems different, though. In Irving’s office last week, Niall had mentioned the idea of going public with their relationship, something that had them all doing a double take. Sure, creating the image of forever single Niall Horan hadn’t been Niall’s doing, nor his choice, but he had never expressed any desire to change it.

And with Louis and Eleanor’s debacle, Zayn’s absurd engagement, Harry’s seasonal romances and Liam’s conveniently timed break-ups and make-ups as bases for comparison, who could blame him?

“I know, Ni,” Harry says softly, putting a hand on Niall’s back. “I mean, you want to go public. That’s huge.”

To Harry’s surprise, Niall sighs, and gives him a look much heavier than one would expect from him, at least while making small talk as they wait for an interview to start.

“Harry,” his voice quivers just slightly. “As someone who has had to keep is relationship hidden for years but, at the same time, has had any part of it scrutinised by thousands of people, do you think it would be a terrible mistake? You know, to go public?”

A million quid question, that. Harry takes his time considering the issue, weighting carefully what he wants to say. “I think,” he starts, slowly, leaning his back on the nearest wall. “I think it kinda depends on her. I mean, you know what happens. You can bring her as your plus one, you’re encouraged to fly her in at times, she has to stomach fewer weird rumours about you.”

 “I can hear a _but_ there,” Niall grumbles, but stares at him with heart-clenching hopefulness.

Of course there’s a _but_. There’s a _but_ so big it’s basically a stop sign. “Just – can she handle it? She wants to be a model, doesn’t she?”

Niall nods. In the back of his mind, Harry thinks of Nadine Leopold, and their double date with Jeff and Glenne in three days.

“Then maybe she can. She’s used to the scrutiny, anyway. It could be bad, though, genuinely nasty for her for a while. Now she only sees the good stuff – you know, the money, the parties, the famous friends, the special treatment, the traveling. But people can be vicious and it’s a bit…” he holds his breath, trying to come up with the right word. He settles on, “Disheartening, to have your name dragged in the mud by tabloids and twitter mentions.”

(in the back of his mind, he thinks of _Harry Styles sleeping with ‘several’ women at once_ and _Harry Styles had affair with married woman_ and _‘Sex mad’ Harry Styles beds ‘four girls at once’ on One Direction tours_ and _Harry Styles dumped Taylor Swift because she wouldn’t put out_ )

“But, like,” Harry adds, putting his hand on Niall’s shoulder. “No matter how bad things get for her, she can always, you know, walk away from it. You can’t. So, um… think it through, I guess?”

Niall barks a laugh at Harry’s tentative finish, and wraps his arms around Harry’s middle. “I’ll think it through, promise. Thanks, _lil’ spoon_.”

Yes, so Harry’s the little spoon, as he has just declared in an interview, much to Niall’s amusement. So what? Being spooned is like being enveloped by a toasty heated blanket that also loves you and will murmur sweet nothings in your ear and give you kisses and maybe fuck you a bit in the morning.

“Alright, Niall, take the piss. You’re the one who’s missing out,” Harry says as they separate, leaving an arm around Niall’s shoulders. “You’re the one who won’t open himself up to _love_.”

“’m not taking the piss. It’s just funny, y’know, thinking of a teaspoon spooning a tablespoon.”

A _teaspoon_. His little Louis would be so pissed, balling his little hands into little fists and stomping his little feet with a pout on his little face. Harry bursts in a fit of giggles, clutching Niall closer to him.

“Spoons,” Liam’s disgruntled voice quakes from behind them. “What a terrible topic of conversation, lads.”

Turning around with a synchronised twirl, Niall and Harry see Liam and Zayn already there, with Johnny, Melly and Louis still a few steps behind.

“Why are we talking about spoons?” Louis asks when they reach the rest of them, sliding next to Harry and glaring with no subtlety at all until Harry takes his arm off Niall with an eyeroll. Quite ironically, considering Louis’ irrational (and maybe a bit played up) jealousy, Niall barely notices, too busy making heart eyes at Melly, now standing beside him.

“Harry here has just announced on the radio that he’s the lil’ spoon,” Niall answers, not even bothering to stop staring at Melly.

“Aww,” Louis coos, standing on his tiptoes to leave a kiss on Harry’s cheek. “I’ll go listen to it later, babe.”

Harry blushes and looks at the ground and smiles so wide he fears his face won’t be big enough for it, because, after all these years, he still loves when Louis is blatant and affectionate with him in front of others.

“He also said that Patrick Dempsey was handsome and _steamy_ ,” Niall adds, because the bloke likes to piss on Harry’s nice things and laugh. What a traitor. Coming to Harry for advice and then stabbing him in the back without even looking guilty about it.

“What?” Louis squeaks, his eyes twice as large as they normally are, and he’s clearly amused but also petty enough to refuse Harry the bathroom blowjob he’d promised. Harry will dye all of Niall’s hair black. He’ll cut his guitar’s chords. He’ll bloody sew all the cuts on the knees of his precious ripped jeans. “I am here, mourning your absence in every interview, and you go and make comments on other men?”

“Oh, Louis, come off it,” Zayn laughs, elbowing him in the flank. “You flirted with our male interviewer for the whole segment.”

“At the end of it, I thought he was going to slip you his number,” Liam adds.

Harry will have to check out this interview. Although they’re probably just messing with him, like -

Louis flashes them all his smuggest grin, and says with extreme gusto, “Oh, he did.”

“You took a guy’s number?” Harry’s eyes widen so much they threaten to fall out of their sockets, but before he can even elaborate how absurd it is, Louis shakes his head with an incredulous expression.

“No, of course I didn’t take it!” he clarifies, then does a little shimmy with his shoulders, “I’m just saying, he offered.”

It’s not rational, but Harry gets filled with a pleasant surge of pride. Like, it’s obvious: you’re with someone because you think they’re outstanding and everyone would be lucky to have them, but it’s a bit cool when other people prove it to you. Tons of men and women who would want Louis to be theirs, and he still picks Harry every day.

“You should have taken it,” Harry retorts. “Might have been up for a threeway.”

“We’re not having a threeway with anyone,” Louis says with increasing indignation, giving Harry a weak punch on his shoulder.

“But what about the old sharing is caring?”

“Careful, or the only thing that’ll be _caring_ for you with will be your hand, Harold.”

Which is an empty threat if there ever was one, but at least it makes Niall laugh.

Harry’s still going to dye his hair.

 

 

** 27th – Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose **

 

It’s not _fair_.

One can't simply say something of that calibre and expect Harry to go on with his day afterwards. Especially if the one is Louis and the something is _'Is it okay if I get a tat that kinda matches one of yours?'._

First of all, those kind of things shouldn't be discussed at 4 in the morning, while Harry's awake due to jet lag but boneless and sated after the last half hour of Louis' magnificent tongue on his arse, because he will mumble 'great idea, baby' and dive down to take Louis' hard cock into his mouth without even registering the words.

Second of all, refusing to provide further explanations later, when Harry has indeed registered the words, is just plain mean. And reckless. One can't get  impromptu matching ink. It's inconsiderate, and what if he regrets it, or gets a better idea tomorrow, and no Harry's anchor to match Louis' rope doesn't count. Louis' rope was _for Harry_ anyway.

And lastly, texting him continuous updates while Harry's out with Johnny, Liam and Niall for lunch is infuriating and a bit sadistic and Harry wishes he had enough willpower to stop checking his phone at every vibration.

 _there's so much ducking shading why do i choose things with so much shading hatold_ , the latest text reads. There are some spelling errors, but not as many as there would be if Louis was typing with his left hand. Not something on his left arm, then. It could be a leg tat, but there's nothing to match on Harry's, so probably not. Even if Louis would look amazing with something on his delicious meaty thigh - Harry should maybe bring that up, like, casually. Maybe on his chest? Something to match the ferns, like _It Is What It Is_ for the butterfly.

Or maybe, maybe on his left arm, bare but for the wrist art? The arm that complements Harry's right, the _Things I Can_ arm. The empty arm, because Harry can nothing until he's free.

"Harry?" Niall elbows him, and Harry ends up sending a text that says _twaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaà_. It somehow still conveys the right sentiment.

"Sorry, sorry, we were saying?"

Harry pockets the phone. He will be good company for an hour, even if it means ignoring his twat of a boyfriend.

 

*

 

The twat joins them for lunch, with Zayn in tow, both of them bouncing around like springs, riding on the tattoo high. Zayn shows off his hand mandala as soon as he sits down, only requiring some gentle coaxing from Liam before explaining all the meanings of the beautiful design.

Louis, instead, uncovers the fresh smiley face on his right arm, the same doodle he does when he can't make penises and always makes him feel better, which is -okay, maybe really fucking adorable, but not what Harry wants to see. Louis keeps the left sleeve carefully down, cuff buttons fastened and all, and just smiles very very brightly when Harry starts playing with its hem. Harry is a bit excited that Louis is so adamant to show him the tat in private.

They get distracted soon enough, all eager to question Johnny about bizarre Australian things and what to do when they come back in February, where Niall could bring Melly for a romantic outing, and if he watches the telly program they have to go on this afternoon.

It's only when they are back in their hotel room, and Harry is rambling about how cool it is that Johnny is here, and that the lads agreed to have lunch and made him feel comfortable and interesting, that Louis shots him a bemused look and interrupts, almost casual but a little too squeaky to pull it off. "Well, do you want to see it?"

Harry shuts up and nods eagerly, with enough vehemence to make his bun loosen up, and settles down cross-legged on the bed. He has a feeling he'll want to sit down for this.

"Okay." Louis takes a seat next to him, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt before thinking better of it. "Explanation first. Those all represent things I think about when everything else sucks. The smiley face started as a thing for my sisters, so it's for my family. Then there's a script, which is for our job and how grateful I am for it. And then," he takes Harry's hand in his and squeezes, "there's something for you."

Harry's throat is so tight, he is surprised when he manages to let out a breathy "Show me".

Louis opts to unbutton his whole shirt and take it off instead of pulling the sleeve up, careful to keep the right arm hidden. "No peeking," he orders. "Actually, I don't trust you. Close your eyes."

Harry complies with only a little annoyed groan, wanting to speed the process up. _Something for you_. Louis has plenty of tattoos for Harry, many more than is probably reasonable already, but they are always somehow planned - even the anchor had always been a matter of when more than if. This, whatever it is, feels like a different kind of statement.

"You can open them," Louis says gently after a while, caressing Harry's cheek, and Harry does.

There's a lot of naked skin in front of him, but his gaze scans directly over the card suits wristband, and the skull and bones, and - oh. Oh. It's... IT'S -

"Is it-"

"A dagger, yeah." Louis takes hold of Harry's wrist and tugs it forward, till Harry can touch it, put his fingers on the... the dagger. A bloody dagger. Holy shit. "You can take the wrapping paper off, if you want."

Harry wants. He slides off the two bandaid strips that keep the paper in place, as slowly and delicately as he can, then he lifts the wrapping paper and- there it is. He crumbles the paper and tosses it on the floor, without watching, his eyes completely glued to the dagger. The _dagger_.

“Beautiful,” is all he says, choked and raspy and incredulous. He doesn’t know what to do. Touch the reddened skin, kiss it, kiss Louis, put his arm up and see how the rose looks beside it. Curl up in a corner and have a cry because it doesn’t fit, all this heat and fluttering sparks don’t fit in his chest. Order a twenty feet high gold statue of Louis. Blow him. Let him take him from behind, their arms close, so the dagger can go through the rose with every thrust.

“It’s not weird, is it?” Louis asks gingerly, as if there’s a universe in which Harry reacts to a dagger differently than by becoming an incoherent bumbling mess of love and fondness.

Harry hugs him with enough vehemence to knock them back on the bed, his palms touching as much of Louis’ skin as they can reach, and his mouth as well, kissing and biting everywhere. “Not weird,” he says or sobs, leaving a patch of helpless wetness on Louis’ collarbone. “Not weird. Love you so much. Not weird.”

“Glad you like it, love,” Louis murmurs in his hair, his voice thin as tissue paper, one leg circling Harry’s waist.

“I love it, babe. But I have to ask,” he uses an elbow on the mattress for leverage, so he can rise up and look Louis in the eyes. “Why now? I’ve had the rose for what, more than a year?”

Louis chuckles, his hand moving to caress the spot on Harry’s left arm where the rose rests. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I guess this is my _I’m not in fact straight_.” His fingers trace the outline of each petal, the two leaves, the stem. “Does it make sense?”

The slight tremble in Louis’ voice gives Harry pause, makes his heart clench. “Of course it makes sense,” he whispers, trying to be as delicate as Louis’ touch on his arm.

It doesn’t, really. When they started getting things inspired by each other, they always tried to rationalise them, make sure that they could also be standalones in case anything happened between them. Which is, like, plain idiotic, because it’s not like _oops_ and _hi_ could ever be associated to anything else, but still.

Their bodies, their artwork… they used to be two songs that went remarkably well together, giving a different sound when played together. Now, they are right hand lines and left hand lines of a piano sheet – you can kind of hear the final melody when you play just one, but it seems patchy, incomplete, like a book with random words crossed out.

They could make it work by themselves, of course. If need be, the right hand and the left hand would enrich their score, tweak it so they’d be back to fullness, different but just as beautiful as they were combined. Find another accompanying hand, even.

In the last four years, though, Harry has never found a single reason why they would want to do it.

“It doesn’t make sense at all, does it?” Louis murmurs, self-deprecatingly, but stares up at him with such unbounded, peaceful contentment. “You can say it, it’s okay.”

“I mean.” Harry gets a firm grip on the thigh sitting on his hip, and rolls to lie on his back, bringing Louis with him. Louis ends up half straddling, half just sprawled on Harry’s chest. And, like, the closer to his heart Harry can keep Louis, the happier he is.

“I mean,” he repeats, his fingers fondling the skin right below Louis’ bum. “You can’t very well remain alone with an arrow _and_ a dagger. You’d seem obsessed with violence or something. As I see it, there’s, like, only one possible solution.”

“Uh-uh? And what is it?” Louis asks, putting his hands one on top of the other on Harry’s sternum and laying his chin on them.

“Keep me by your side at all times, clearly,” Harry answer raising his head just enough for Louis to meet him halfway for a quick peck. “Marry me. Possibly have manymany babies with me.”

Louis snorts, laughs and smiles at the same time, his eyes becoming tiny crinkly slits of blue. “How do the manymany babies help in giving credibility to my tattoos?”

“They don’t,” Harry says candidly. “I just want them.”

“Okay,” Louis titters, lifting up a bit on his knees and bending forward, so their mouths can properly align. “We’ll have as manymany babies as you want, love,” he whispers, and joins their lips.

Harry brings his palms properly on Louis’ bum, squeezing it in time with the same rhythm with which their tongues swirl around each other. They would have such good babies, the two of them, even if they can’t be genetically theirs. And there’s only so much a parent can and should influence their kids, sure, but if having loving and caring parents were enough to shape loving and caring new humans, then they’d have most loving and caring new humans of all.   

About their number… well, they will see. Three or four could be a good one but, like, it’d also be bloody amazing to reach Jay’s record.

Seven babies spread in twenty-two years, God. Wouldn’t it be nice.

“Love,” Harry asks, hurriedly, when they come up for air. “Do you think you have inherited your mum’s magical twin-making power? Is it genetic? I think it might be.”

Louis raises his eyebrows and blinks at him, several times. “I have literally never thought of that before,” he says while shaking his head fondly. “What I know, though,” he continues, placing his lips on Harry’s neck and leaving wet kisses all over it, “is that we have twenty minutes before we have to leave, and we can fit at least a handjob in.”

That’s, like, a solid plan. Yeah. Harry could get behind it.

“Okay, okay, come on,” he mumbles, grabbing Louis’ arse with more force and pushing it down. Their crotches collide as their mouths find each other again, frantically moving in unison. In unison, like twins. Harry would love twins. He’d dress them in different but matching outfits and they’d be such a handful but also adorable, and Harry really needs to know what are the odds. “Wait,” he turns his head slightly, Louis’ mouth landing on his jaw. “Can I, like, google it? Like, quickly.”

Louis buries his face into Harry’s neck, groaning. “Oh for God’s sake,” he whines, but plants his hands on Harry’s shoulders and pulls himself up to his knees.

“Let me get my phone.”

 

 

** 28th – Everywhere **

 

 _I need to come clean to someone: I don’t like Fleetwood Mac,_ he sends as he’s literally watching Fleetwood Mac perform in front of him, and maybe it’s a bit sad and impolite, but it’s the truth. Louis deserves to know the truth (also, Harry’s coming to see the exact same show tomorrow. It’s not like he’s missing anything by texting).

Luckily, at least Harry loves the concert vibe. He’s going to dance and flail around for the next couple of hours and possibly soon _go his own way_ , which will lead him straight to bed. He hasn’t slept in forever and this afternoon he lost at golf with someone with twice his handicap, but the weather in LA is amazing and he’s feeling generally hopeful about life.

He doesn’t expect an answer from Louis – honestly, he’s not even sure what day and time it is here, he wouldn’t know how to figure out where in the world Louis is right now. His flight was later than Harry’s, and he’s going straight back to London. Surprisingly, his phone vibrates while he still has it in his hand.

 _Just landed in DXB, connection in like 1 hour_ , Louis’ text reads, followed by

_poor babe :( and here I thought things with mac in the name could never disappoint_

_like mac n cheese_

_or mcdonalds (it counts)_

Harry snickers loudly, with that laugh Louis never fails to bring out of him. The sudden, pterodactyl-like bark the lads always make fun of him for. He makes enough noise for both Nadine and Jeff to turn toward him, while Glenne continues to sing along happily, oblivious. He shrugs at them, and Jeff only spares him an eyeroll before refocusing on the show. Nadine watches him intently, instead, and he sends her a wink before typing an answer to Louis.

 _Macbooks_ , he writes, continuing their banter. Nadine’s eyes are still on him and, as Stevie sings that _dreams unwind, love’s a state of mind_ , Harry wonders if she expected him to be different. Like, of course she did; everyone has a skewed image of characters in tabloids, which almost never matches reality.  He hopes she can readjust her expectations soon because, as much as he has no intention of making this whole farce look authentic, things are nicer for everyone involved if they can stand each other behind the scenes. The situation itself is draining enough without the added stress of awkward silences or overt mutual dislike. If all goes well, Nadine will advance her career, Harry’s team will be overjoyed by the hetero points he collects without them actually undermining all of his closet-dismantling efforts, and they’ll go their separate ways without neither hard nor soft feelings.

(He has enough experience on fauxmances to write a handbook. The thought nauseates him a bit.)

His screen lighting up with another message interrupts his musings. _macarons_ , Louis suggests from the other side of the Atlantic, and he’s probably sitting in an exclusive lounge, curled up on a seat with his tiny legs against his chest, bundled up in layers because flights and lack of sleep make him cold.

 _Macadamia nuts_ , Harry fires back.

Louis’ answer is immediate. _maculation_.

Harry frowns at the nonsense. Unsurprising from Louis, of course, but still confusing. _Maculation_?

_…... i googled words containing mac_

Of course Louis did. This time, Harry manages to put a hand on his mouth before giggling helplessly into it.

_That’s cheating_

_ur only pissed bc u werent MAChiavellian enough to do it_ , Louis responds, and then, _speaking of disappointments, hows janine_

Janine. This man, honestly. Harry shakes his head and steals a glance at Nadine, who’s tapping her fingers on her arm and looking bored out of her mind.

_She may like Fleetwood Mac less than I do. She may like Fleetwood Mac less than she likes knock knock jokes._

_harold. u did not._

Oh, he did too. And Louis should know, it isn’t easy to find something to say to someone you’ve never spoken to before but are supposed to date. _I was trying to break the ice_ , he writes.

_same as the titanic was trying to break the ice_

_I said ‘knock knock’ and she said ‘it’s open, Harry’_

Louis sends an _ahahah_ , followed by a very touching and lovely _u could tell it to me_

He was going to recycle one of his usual jokes for Nadine, but he has an entire category dedicated to Louis in his journal. _I have a special joke for you_ , he tells Louis. _Knock knock_

_whos there?_

_Halo_

_halo who?_

_halove you xx_

“Everything okay?” Jeff asks with an amused smirk, bringing his mouth close to Harry’s ear and almost making him jump off his seat.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry nods, reading Louis’ latest text (which comprises a hear-no-evil monkey, a banana and a heart emoji) before locking his phone and putting it back in his pocket and letting himself be enveloped by the music once again.

 _Oh I, I want to be with you everywhere_ , Christine McVie sings, and so does the crowd, and so does his heart. _Oh I, I want to be with you everywhere_.

 

 

** 29th – Sweeter than peaches and pears and cream **

 

"And also, the fridge is making noises again."

"Wasn't the fridge guy supposed to come and fix it?"

"Yeah, he did. Julia said it was okay on Thursday, but today it started buzzing again."

"Glad the damn thing respects Julia, at least. It's just us it doesn't like."

"It's probably got cold feet around her."

"Harold."

"It's just giving us the cold shoulder."

"Harold."

"We probably shouldn't have expected it to quit like that, cold turkey."

"I'll quit you cold turkey, I swear."

"Oh right, Lewis, sure. It'll be a cold day in hell when that happens."

"Oh my God. So what are we going to do about the fridge?"

"I'll call the fridge guy again."

"You know, we could still just buy another fridge."

"No, Lou, I love that fridge. It's the perfect fridge. No fridge could ever be better than that."

"Nobody compares to that fridge."

"It _is_ the best fridge ever."

"Let's have another toast to the fridge almighty."

"It's got that one thing..."

"Yes, Haz, and that thing is an incessant and very annoying buzzing. What about buying the same fridge, just a new one? Would that work, love?"

"Oh. Oh! That. That's. See, there is a reason why I put up with you."

"Put up with? Oh Harold, you just wait. After all, revenge is a dish best served cold."

"Louuuu. That was a pun, sort of. Good for you, embrace it. It was puntastic. I'll give it at least a 7."

"A 7. I can't believe I interrupted a very passionate game of FIFA to have this frankly insulting phonecall. And now you're just giggling at me. Stop giggling."

"I love you."

"Yeah yeah, right back at you. So we're buying a new fridge?"

"I'll make a last try with the fridge guy before that."

"What, why? Are you emotionally attached to the fridge? Oh wait, is the fridge guy hot?"

"Of course. You know I have a thing for middle-aged married men."

"Whatever. Send me a pic when he comes. I want to know if there are handsome muscly men in my home. Might consider a trip to LA ahead of time."

"I'll ask for the hottest fridge guy they have at the fridge guy factory, then."

"Someone outrageously handsome and steamy, maybe?"

"Let that go, Lou, let that go. You know that Patrick Dempsey kind of looks like you, right?"

"Bringing Patrick Dempsey back in the conversation is not really helping discrediting the middle-aged married men thing, to be honest."

"The weirdly tall hair, the chiselled cheekbones, the breathtaking blue eyes..."

"Okay, okay, I give up, you win. Enough with the husky voice. I need to see me mum in a bit."

"You know, Patrick may be beautiful, but no one can rock a black suit quite like you, babe."

"Hazza."

"The things I would have done to you, right there on the red carpet. You looked so pristine and collected, all buttoned up... I would have loved showing everyone how you were just some hours before, on your knees in a hotel room, Jonathan waiting for us somewhere. You couldn't stop stroking those leather pants, could you? I didn't wear them for the paps, you know, I know how much you love the smell of leather and cock."

"Harry, Harry, please, you can't, God."

"Are you touching yourself, love?"

"No, I'm doing a fucking sudoku, fucking hell, you're a sadist, what do you think I'm doing."

"Should I go on, then?"

"Do you need a fucking written request?"

"Oh, that mouth of yours. Naughty thing. You can't help it, can you? Stuffing it full is really the only way to make you shut it. And you don't even need me to do anything now, do you, even fucking your face is just redundant, you know exactly how I want it, and you just can't wait to give it to me, can you? Remember in September, that time in the US, when someone came in the room and you just couldn't stop, couldn't take your lips off till I was done with you. Or maybe you wanted them to see? Wanted to show off how good you are at taking me, how much you can please me, how quiet you can be? Niall couldn't look me in the eyes for days."

"Niall, uh, Niall fucking deserves it. And he should be used to it by now. Or know better. You weren't exactly being quiet."

"So you remember it? Do you have a corner of your mind dedicated to all the times you've ever had my cock down your throat, Lou? Do you replay them when you stroke yourself, just the thought of the taste and the weight in your mouth enough to get you going? Do you ever think about it at random times, during interviews or when you’re grocery shopping, you’ll be in the cereal aisle and wish you were lying down between my legs, licking my tip like it could be enough to satisfy your thirst? And you drag your hips down on the mattress, leaking, till I tell you to stop because I know you can come untouched, just from choking on my cock…”

“’M actually too –uh, too old for that now. _Fuck_.”

“… like that first time after the X Factor show, when we sang Kids In America and you just couldn't pretend not wanting it anymore? And how you made me and yourself think you were just doing it for me, because you'd spent so many years pushing everything down and you couldn't be the guy who liked sucking cock, right? And then you came all over yourself even before I did, hard dick still in your mouth, and you kept going after, mouth stretched impossibly and wet eyes and lovely gagging hiccups, hoping I wouldn’t notice how much you’d loved it. But you do love it, Lou, don't you? Louis, tell me."

"I do, oh God, you bastard. I do. You're going to give me a heart attack someday, you fucker, God."

"Are we at the point where I could just read the phone book and you'd still come?"

"Yeah, but if you dare reading the grocery list again I _will_ hang up."

"Our Bosch Factory Service Technicians and our network of authorized servicers are friendly, efficient professionals who have undergone training on the finest appliance tech-"

"Are you reading the website of the fridge company?"

"-nology. We repair Bosch dishwashers, washers, dryers, ranges, wall ovens, cooktops, refrigerat- wait, did you come? Did you genuinely come while I was saying _refrigerator_?"

"Oh, fuck you."

"Who's emotionally attached to the fridge now?”

“Have you quite finished?”

“Your cock, that's who."

"I hate you. I detest you. I loathe you."

"Love you too, babe. Now go change your pants before your mom comes."

"I can't. I can't stand up."

"Woah, I'll have to tell the fridge guy. 'Hey Mike, you know you made Louis Tomlinson come so hard he couldn't stand up?'."

"Yeah, and he'll say 'Louis Tomlinson who?'. How do you even become a fridge guy, by the way? Is there a fridge guy school? It seems like a very focused occupation."

"I don't think he only does fridges though, I think he branches out. Weren't you listening? Dishwashers, washers, dryers..."

"Maybe there's a universe in which I'm a fridge guy."

"And I'm a single man with a very noisy fridge."

"And I have to come there many many times, because the fridge just doesn't want to get fixed."

"Till you start suspecting there's something fishy about the unfixable fridge."

"Like maybe the hot long-haired farmer boy is purposefully sabotaging it."

"And then we fuck on the kitchen counter while you keep your tool belt on."

"Well, Harold, that sure escalated quickly."

"And then we live in the same house, together, forever, without an ocean between us."

"Haz... we're almost there, yeah? We just have to hang in there a bit more. Just a bit more."

"Yeah, I know. I love you very much a lot."

"I love you very much a lot too, baby. I really have to go now."

"Okay, say hi to Jay for me."

"I will. And you, don't pretend you aren't going to wank to the thought of me with a tool belt as soon as we hang up."

"Sure that's you in a tool belt? Mike the Fridge Guy looks quite nice in one."

"I'm going to hang up now."

"Okay Lou. Light of my life. Tool guy of my dreams."

"Shut up. Call me tomorrow when you wake up. Have fun with Jeff, or Kathleen, or whatever. And get some proper sleep, for fuck's sake."

" _Nadine_. And alright, I will. You too, have fun whatever."

"Bye, you shit. I love you."

"Love you too, Lou. So glad to have you."

 

 

** 30th – Scared of dentists and the dark **

 

Jeff knows the best places. Jeff is great. Jeff and Glenne are great. And tonight was amazing and the car spinning around him is amazing. Even if it has stopped. Stopped, like, going. Not spinning. Which is okay, even though Harry doesn’t really like rollercoasters and this looks a bit like one. The Spinning Car. Would make millions. Harry’s a genius.

Also Jeff is a genius. And Harry had so much fun. LA at night is so much fun. Who said that LA is for people who sleep? Not Harry. Even if sleep sounds nice at the mo. Anyway.

And was Jaqueline there? No, wait, that’s not her name. Her name’s, like, with an N. Nadine. Nadine. She came to the Nice Guy but then they kinda lost her? Which is better because, like, Harry is very bad at heterosexual dancing. He has no idea what heterosexual dancing is, but he knows he’s bad at it. For sure.

God, Harry is so queer. So bloody _queer_.

“I’m so bloody queer,” he slurs/whispers to his driver when he opens the car door. He has such nice burly arms, the driver, holds Harry’s hand so tenderly. What’s his name again? Harry asked, that’s for sure. And he must have answered. It’d be rude to ask again. Harry can call him Burly Arms in his head.

Burly Arms starts pulling him out of the car and tells him, “Mister Styles, careful not to smash your skull,” which might be the chilliest thing anyone has ever said to him after he’d come out to them. Burly Arms is so very lovely. Just like his burly arms. Harry might be in love.

“Goodbye, Mister Styles,” Burly Arms says once Harry is quasi-standing on his own two feet and one of his in-house bodyguards already has his arms around him. They aren’t nearly as burly as Burly Arms’. It’s disappointing.

Harry reaches for Burly Arms’ hand – or maybe he overshoot and takes his arm, which is fine because, _damn_ – and shakes it, like, a lot. The shaking has to be proportional to the satisfaction, right? Harry’s very satisfied.

“Goodnight, Burly Arms, thank you,” Harry shouts as Burly Arms climbs back into the car and closes the door behind him. He closes the door so beautifully. What a cutie.

Not Nearly As Burly Arms leads Harry into the house and up the stairs and into his room – his and Louis’ room, and Harry shakes his hand and thanks him and wishes him goodnight, because not nearly as burly people should have good nights as well.

He lies down starfish-like on the bed, his arm caressing up and down Louis’ half. Louis has such beautiful, burly arms. He’s, like, the definition of not-burly. The antiburly. He’s teeeeeeeny tiny. But his arms have all those… bulges. God, Harry misses Louis’ bulge. Why did they do the phone thing yesterday and Harry decided not to rub one off? He’s an idiot. He’s not a genius. Nuh-uh.

He rolls on one side and oh – his clock says it’s, like, five. Which is early. But it’s also late. It’s late in England. Louis is in England. He can call Louis. They can do the phone thing now, if Louis wants.

He calls Louis. It’s easy. He only needs to press 1 for a bit.

“Hello,” Louis says as he picks up. He seems alarmed. Louis should never ever be alarmed. He should be nothing but happy all the time.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiii Louuuuuiiiiiis,” Harry says, rolling on his back and staring dreamingly at the ceiling. Louis chose its colour. It’s a wonderful colour. Anything that Louis choses is wonderful. Which means Harry’s wonderful too. Ah!

“Is everything okay? It’s the middle of the night there. Are you okay?”

Louis sounds so distressed. It won’t do. Harry gives him a reassuring giggle. “Well, I am a bit tipsy.”

“Shit, thank God.” Harry hears him inhaling and exhaling. He inhales and exhales in time with Louis. Sometimes their heartbeats get synchronised as well. They are so amazing together.

“Did you go clubbing? Where are you now?”

“I’m on our bed,” he tells Louis. If he concentrates very very hard he can still feel Louis’ smell in the room. “In which you’re not. And that is, you know, sad.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” Louis says, and he doesn’t sound worried anymore. He doesn’t sound sad either. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yep. Jeff is amazing. And also Glenne. And also Burly Arms, he was amazing.”

“Burly _who_?” Louis asks, and Harry imagines he’s doing his confused and a bit annoyed face.

“Burly Arms,” Harry repeats.

“Hazza, how much did you have to drink?”

His voice is sharp. Harry hates sharp voices. He likes soft tunes and lullabies.

“Are you mad at me?” he pouts. “Please don’t be mad at me, I love you.”

Louis sighs. His sighs sound a bit like lullabies. “I’m not mad at you, kitten,” he says. Harry loves when Louis calls him kitten. Harry is Louis’ kitten and Louis is Harry’s kitten and one day they’re going to have a dozen kittens. Or was it babies? Both. Harry wants both.

“Dear, do you have your laptop there?” Louis asks, all gentle, making Harry beam.

“I do,” Harry answers promptly. But wait – “What do you want me to do? I wanted to do the phone thing. Like yesterday. Can we do the phone thing?”

“Be patient, love, and get your laptop.”

Harry reluctantly leaves the phone on the duvet and reaches to get the laptop on his nightstand. When he manages to grab it, he plops back down on the bed, settling it on his stomach.

“Got it,” he says into the phone. “Now?”

“Now we do the skype thing.” And fuck, he can hear Louis winking through the phone, and thirty seconds later he can see Louis winking in grainy quality on his screen. Louis is a genius. And Harry is a genius because he snatched Louis from the market years ago and he’s never ever ever letting go.

“You can hang up, babe,” screen Louis tell him, and it echoes into Harry’s phone.

Harry hangs up and gives screen Louis his widest smile. “Hi.”

“Hi, love,” Louis says, all crinkly and soft in sweats and one of Harry’s hoodies. The only better thing than seeing him in Harry’s clothes would be seeing him… out of them.

“Love,” Harry repeats, a bit breathless. “Can we have sex now?”

Louis clenches his eyes shut as he cackles, cupping his mouth with his hand. “Are you sure you can even get it up?”

“Yes!” Harry announces, but then he frowns. “I’m not sure. Let me check.”

He pushes the laptop farther down his legs, and unzips his jeans. He takes out his cock from his pants and gives it a couple good tugs. His cock gives no response whatsoever. It’s sad and disappointing and also sad.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” Louis says, and despite the fuzziness in his head Harry can tell he’s holding back a laughter. Insensitive prick. Just like Harry’s. Ah. “I could try putting up a show for it?”

“No, it’s fine. I think it’s asleep. I’m quite sleepy as well,” Harry answers, and soon enough he’s yawning without even having enough strength to put his hand in front of his mouth.

“Go to sleep, then, love. You have a plane to catch in a few hours.”

“Want to fall asleep with you, though,” Harry pleads with heavy eyes, settling the laptop beside him and rolling on a side. “Would you sing something for me, please?”

“Of course.” Louis picks up his laptop and walks around somewhere in their house. Harry can faintly hear a familiar meow in the background. Oh, he’ll see his Selina tomorrow.

The movement finally comes to a stop, and Harry has trouble placing where they are until Louis sits down in front of wherever the laptop is and presses a few piano keys. Harry’s getting a lullaby _with live music_. He’s the luckiest person in the world.

“Anything in particular you want to hear?”

“My Old Man by Joni Mitchell,” Harry replies promptly, as he tucks his cock back in his pants and shimmies out of his trousers and draws the covers open, settling down under them. He knows Louis knows the words and the melody. It’s one of their songs, like, part of the will-dance-to-it-at-our-wedding playlist.

As Louis starts playing, his whole face morphs. He’s not as smooth as Joni, but he’s just as passionate, just as committed to it. “ _My old man_ ,” he sings, without all of Joni’s fanfare. A simpler, more heartfelt cover. “ _He's a singer in the park, he's a walker in the rain, he's a dancer in the dark_.” Louis closes his eyes, and Harry holds his breath for the next lines. “ _We don't need no piece of paper from the city hall, keeping us tied and true. My old man, keeping away my blues_.”

It goes on saying how the singer loves their man, how much they love being with him, and how dreadful it is when he’s gone. It’s fitting, and beautiful, and Louis’ voice is a soothing hand on his sore muscles after a rough day. But, after Louis sings the last chorus, Harry is still wide awake.

“Thank you, it was brilliant,” he praises, and he means it. He feels like he’s lying on a fluffy, impalpable cloud of love. Yet, he wants more. “Another one, pretty please?”

“And no one believes me when I tell them you’re a bossy drunk,” Louis comments idly, but he takes a pile of music sheets in his hands and starts browsing. “Does it have to be a love song? Like, does it have to be something I’d dedicate to you specifically?”

“No, sing whatever you want.”

“It’s that I’ve got this song stuck in my head,” he says, his eyes stuck on the sheets. “But it’s a bit of a sad one.”

“It’s okay,” Harry reiterates, bringing the covers closer around himself. He doesn’t want to go to sleep sad. He’s not going to say not to Louis, though. Maybe ‘a bit’ means just slightly sad, and isn’t a euphemism for ‘it’ll rip your heart out and chew on it’.

Louis places two papers in front of him, and clears his throat before putting his hands on the keys. He plays a single chord, then starts singing. _“I was scared of dentists and the dark. I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations._ ”

Harry vaguely remembers hearing it on the radio, but not who’s the author or what’s the title. Louis’ version is melancholic, heart clenching, and Harry doesn’t think he was so moved by the original one.

“ _Oh, and they come unstuck_ ,” Louis belts, hitting the last high note flawlessly. His fingers push harder on the keys, the pace picking up for the chorus. “ _Lady, running down to the riptide, taken away to the dark side, I wanna be your left hand man_.” He smiles as he’s singing, like he always smiles when he knows he has perfect control on his pitch and on the emotions in the song. Louis’ voice is so fragile but so expressive, like a piece of crystal that reflects lights in every shade and every direction.

“ _I love you when you're singing that song, and I got a lump in my throat ‘cause you're gonna sing the words wrong._ ”

Harry feels himself starting to drift, and he tries to hold onto his consciousness, hold onto Louis, but he can’t.

 _I just wanna, I just wanna know if you're gonna, if you're gonna stay. I just gotta, I just gotta know, I can't have it, I can't have it any other way,_ is the last thing he hears before sleep submerges him like a rip tide.

 

 

** 1st of December – Scared of the dark and the dentist **

 

Louis’ figure leaning against their Mercedes seems almost a mirage after the interminable flight, and Harry slows down his pace the closer he gets. He should be hurrying, running straight into Louis’ arms, but he wants to savour this. Savour every tap of Louis’ impatient foot, the different ways in which he can cock his hip to appear flirty but nonchalant. How honestly ridiculous he looks in an outfit taken entirely from Harry’s closet, but is still the most beautiful man Harry’s ever seen.

Harry shakes the hand of the kind employee that has taken him from the plane to here, and walks the final steps toward Louis.

They hug with the smoothness of two ice skaters performing the simplest step in their routine, sinking one in the other’s warmth, Harry’s bag abandoned carelessly on the ground.

They hug and stumble around, and Louis smells of that laundry detergent they’ve been buying for years but can’t seem to find in the States, and every time Harry forgets to order it and have it shipped. God, the weather’s fucking awful, the brisk morning air seeping into his bones, but he’s missed London so much.

He squeezes Louis a little tighter, and Louis does the same. And they haven’t seen each other for three days maybe? Sometimes they don’t see each other for weeks, it’s not like they aren’t used to it. They are a bit like Bruce in that aspect: whether they have gone grocery shopping or away for a month of promo, Bruce will greet them with the same amount of desperate joy.

Harry almost collapses under his own desperate joy, and actually bends down on one knee in front of Louis, a giant grin printed on his face.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry starts before Louis can utter a single word. “Would you like to be my Winter Girlfriend?”

Louis takes the hand Harry’s offering him, and dissolves in a fit of adorable giggles, tugging Harry up to his feet. “Don’t you already have one? What happened to Sharlene?”

“Jeff and I worked out a schedule. No holidays, no PDA,” he says, bringing his arms around Louis and pulling him closer. “A lot of frozen yogurt, though, I don’t know why.”

Louis snorts and shake his head, lost. “Frozen yogurt? Oh, nevermind, I don’t care. No holidays, though?” he asks, and his voice fills with timid hope. “Nothing? For sure?”

“Mh-mh,” Harry hums, meeting Louis halfway in a kiss. “Not even a field trip.”

It means they’ll have more than a month in which they can be in the same city while not on tour. Harry’s not one to keep track, but it might be a record for them.

“That’s great,” Louis says, sorting out the collar of Harry’s coat. “It’d be even better if we discussed it in the car, where there’s heating.”

“Alright,” Harry concedes, stealing one least kiss before they put Harry’s stuff in the trunk and climb in the Mercedes. Harry usually drives, because Louis gets nervous and cranky behind the wheel, and he likes to take naps, play with his phone and generally amuse himself while Harry sings along to his mixtapes in the driver’s seat. Long flights are another story, though, and Harry happily leaves Louis the keys.

“Are you hungry? Would you like to stop somewhere to eat?” Louis asks as he starts the car and drives away from the tarmac.

Harry just wants to go say hi to his beloved bed, to be honest. He’s be okay with not eating, but he knows that as soon as he steps inside their home he will get hit by an untameable desire to stuff his mouth with anything remotely edible he can find. “How’s the state of our fridge?”

“Rather good, I’d say. I could cook you a full English. I’m getting handy,” Louis tells him proudly as he turns on the stereo. There’s a cd already playing, an upbeat tune that Harry recognises immediately.

“I’m not saying no to a full English,” Harry answers while Mary Lambert’s voice is singing the many _so what_ of the chorus.

_I can't think straight, I'm so gay_

They both mouth the words to the start of Harry’s favourite verse, and Harry turns the volume up a bit, hoping Louis will get the hint.

_Sometimes I cry a whole day. I care a lot, use an analog clock, and never know when to stop_

“ _And I'm passive,”_ Louis sings, clear as day, and Harry fires back his “ _aggressive_ ”. They both basically scream for “ _I'm scared of the dark and the dentist_ ,” Louis taking his eyes off the empty highway to steal a quick glance at Harry.

“ _I love my butt and won’t shut up_ ,” they continue with Mary, and they are tragically out of tune, but they don’t give a shit. “ _And I never really grew up_.”

They belt the pre-chorus without any shame at all, and yeah, they aren’t riding off into the sunset yet. It’s still all a bit fucked up, will be for quite some time, but they are together and they are literally driving into the sunrise, and that, somehow, seems better.

 

_I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are_

_I don’t care if the world knows what my secrets are_

_So what?_

_So what?_

_So what?_

_So what?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24th – Title from ‘Strong’  
> 25th 26th -27th-29th – Title from the poem ‘Sacred Emily’ by Gertrude Stein  
> 28th – The songs mentioned are ‘Go Your Own Way’, ‘Rhiannon’ and ‘Everywhere’ by Fleetwood Mac  
> 30th – The second song mentioned is ‘Riptide’ by Vance Joy  
> 1st – The song mentioned is ‘Secrets’ by Mary Lambert
> 
> Thank you for reading :)  
> And, if you wish to cry about Louis' eyelashes with me, you're very much welcome to find me on [tumblr](http://theprizeofcoolness.tumblr.com/).  
> [Tumblr post](http://theprizeofcoolness.tumblr.com/post/112883998242/b-a)


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